Orpheus Drowning
by TaelynHawker
Summary: Sam has to a plan to save Dean. Dean deals with a broken Sam. Wincest, don't like, please don't bother reading. Spoilers for Seasons 1 & 2.
1. The Other Shoe Drops

**Title:** Orpheus Drowning

**Rating: **NC-17 

**Characters: **Dean/Sam (Wincest) 

**Genres: **Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort 

**Summary: **Sam has to come to grips with the deal Dean made. Dean has to deal with a broken Sam. Secrets are kept, admissions are made, all in the name of finding a way to break their pattern of each trying to die for the other. (Spoilers for Seasons 1 & 2) 

**Disclaimer: ****So not mine, if they were I would have better things to do then write about them. **

**Author's Notes:** A/N: First time writing in this fandom. I just started watching the show and second season finale, of course, did me in. So I had to write something. This story is what came of it. Might be a chapter fic, if people like it, cause I definitely have a plot bunny in here somewhere with all the angsty porn. Thanks for reading, hope someone enjoys!

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Sam is silent on the way to the motel. Every now and then he turns to look back at the headlights of Bobby's car as he and Ellen follow them. It's like a nervous twitch. He's waiting for something to attack the cars. He has images of giant bird like demons flying off with the only friends, the only family, he has left. He shudders hard and feels his stomach reel.

And that thought, always that thought, makes him turn his head just enough to watch his brother in his peripheral. Dean has the music cranked loud, the window open so that the chill night hair sends Sam's hair flying in all directions. His arm is out the window, beating the door of the Impala to the beat of Kansas' Carry on Wayward Son. He looks- happy, content. There's no fear in him; he doesn't check the rearview window or look to the sky for would be enemies, or even look sideways at Sam to make sure he's still there. Dean was goddamned Orpheus, bringing people back from the dead, only without the need to look back, to make sure.

He wants to say something. No, he wants to hit something. He watches Dean, openly now. There's still blood on his face from when the damned demon had thrown him and there's dirt on his hand as it grips the wheel of the Impala. Sam looks for something; some sign of the countdown that began just yesterday, the countdown to the end. But he can't see anything. Sure, Dean looks battered and not a little tired, but that's nothing more than usual after a job. Especially not after this, not after tonight.

All of his surety; that he could find a way out of this for Dean, that he could save his brother for once, is gone. There had been something in Dean's eyes when he said it, something more that Dean wasn't telling him.

His fury is near a boiling point. But it's more than that. There's an ache in his chest he can't make go away, a pain that makes it nearly impossible to breathe. He feels every minute, every second that passes.

"How could you?" He asks loudly, angrily, straining to be heard over the music. And he's shocked at how quickly the relaxation in Dean's face flees. How quickly his brother's features break again.

"Please, Sammy. Don't." Is Dean's broken reply. And Sam shuts his mouth, stiffens his jaw. He can't deny the plea in Dean's voice, because it's not something he hears often.

So Sam says nothing for the rest of the ride, says nothing as Bobby and Dean get rooms. He says his goodnights to Ellen and Bobby, giving them fierce hugs, knowing they'll be heading out in the morning and knowing he probably won't see them for a few days, maybe weeks.

And Sam is silent again after that. He follows Dean into their shared room, and sets a small bag on the table in the corner of the room. It's not a bad room; one bed that's more than large enough to share and Sam can't honestly say he minds sharing tonight, no matter how angry he is at his older brother, a TV against the wall, a large bathroom that Dean disappears into immediately, and the table that Sam is standing near. It's painted in light colors and something about that soothes Sam. He takes out the bandages and the peroxide from the bag and sits at the chair, staring at the items. He can hear the shower running in the bathroom.

When Dean comes out of the bathroom just a few minutes later he's wrapped in a towel and glistening wet. He stands in the doorway, staring at Sam for a long moment. Sam blinks heavily, but meets his brother's gaze. There's something in it, something he can't read, but desperately wants to. His chest seizes and he has to fight the urge to stand and take Dean in his arms. Instead he nods his head towards the bed. Dean nods his head once and goes to sit down.

Sam brings over the bandages and the peroxide. Dean is watching him, quiet and somber now, all traces of victory gone from his features. He looks paler somehow, weaker, and that terrifies Sam. What if this is how it happens? Dean taken away from him a little bit more every day until a year is up and there's nothing really left of the Dean he loves. Sam tries to push the thought away and kneels in front of Dean.

His hands are shaking as he cleans Dean's head wound, and by the time he's bandaged and taped it he can't keep them steady no matter how hard he tries. Dean's eyes don't leave his face, and in the soft light of the motel they are more green than hazel and Sam can't deal with that at the moment. There are tears blinding him and burning his eyes. And as he kneels in front of his brother he closes his eyes and lowers his head until it rests on Dean's still shower damp knee.

"Sammy." His name is hardly a breath; it doesn't even stir the air at all as it leaves Dean's lips. A hand rests lightly on his head, the fingers tangling in his hair.

The tears fall loose then, because he doesn't know how to stop them. But he doesn't want them either. He's shaking and breathing has become a task he can't seem to complete. He's shuddering and gasping and his vision is so blurred he can't see anything. It's all a blur. And then he's pushed and prodded a little and without knowing how they're both on the floor and he's wrapped up in his brother's arms, resting against his chest, Dean's legs bent, and surrounding him like a barrier from the rest of the world.

It's a strangling mix of rage and sorrow and hopelessness that claws its way up his throat. It escapes his lips in a ragged scream. And he's pounding his fists on Dean's chest, hitting as hard as he can, which isn't hard considering how badly he's shaking. And Dean just takes it, whispers his name, and touches him; hands brushing his hair back, touching his shoulders, grabbing his face. But he never blocks the blows and Sam loses count how many times he hears the solid thud of his fists hitting his brother.

It isn't enough. Nothing is ever going to be enough.

…….

"How could you do this to me? You selfish, stupid, stubborn son of a bitch!" Sam screams, but it's strangled and barely coherent. A retched sob escapes his lips. His eyes are red ringed and swollen from his tears, and his jaw is clenched tightly. "You dragged me back into this. You came and got me and it was supposed to be you and me and how the fuck am I supposed to do this without you, Dean?" He snarls, but the sound is so weak, so broken that it physically hurts Dean to hear it.

He manages to wrap his arms around his struggling younger brother and pull him closer than he already is. He presses a desperate kiss to Sam's temple, and he tastes Sam's sweat and his tears and the faint copper of Dean's own blood that's somehow been smeared on Sam's temple.

He's shocked by how hard Sam shoves him away. And he's more surprised by how quickly Sam is up on his feet, long legs untangling, so that he towers over Dean. He stares down at him, and Dean is honestly scared of the light in his eyes. Not scared for himself, but for Sam.

He thinks, for the first time, that maybe he really did underestimate just how badly Sam would take this. He'd known he would be upset; angry, guilty, sad, terrified, all those things that Dean had felt when their dad had done this for him. But he wasn't expecting this; this total breakdown, this desperate madness, the helplessness that bleeds off of his little brother in drowning waves. It's suffocating Dean, and he can't imagine what it's doing to Sam.

"Sammy." He says softly.

Sam stumbles away as if he's been shot. He slams hard into the wall and leans precariously there, wipes his face on his shirt sleeve. He's staring at Dean, but he's not seeing.

"Sammy, please." He tries again, his voice is a ragged whisper; it's harsh to his own ears. It's hard to breath.

Sammy's eyes focus back on him, and his face crumples again, lips pulling back in something that is half grimace, half sob.

"I couldn't let you die!" Dean shouts. He gets off the floor, slowly, because he's lightheaded and not a little sick to his stomach, and there isn't a muscle in his body that isn't shaking. The towel is hanging precariously on his hips, but he doesn't notice. "I'm supposed to take care of you, damn it. That's my job. My job! It's always been my job; since before the fire, before mom, before all the fucking demons. Dad never had to tell me, if he'd never said anything I still would of known; you were mine and I was supposed to protect you!" He advances on Sam, who seems like he's trying to find a way to just meld into the wall.

"Fuck you." Sam grates out between clenched teeth. He's shaking so hard, so hard, and Dean can see it as he comes closer. His heart hurts, worse than it did when it was dying. This is all so much worse. "Fuck you and your job. It's my job too. You think I don't feel the same damn way, Dean? How am I supposed to- how can I-?" Sam's anger seems to slip away, just like that, and his face, his beautiful face, is breaking again.

He's sliding slowly down the wall, back towards the floor. Dean steps quickly and grabs him, wrapping him up in his arms, and keeping him up. He gets him standing again, and then backs away just enough to grab Sam's face in his rough hands. He leans forward and presses his forehead against his little brother's. With Sam slumped against the wall they're nearly even height.

"You got to live for me, Sammy. You have to. I need you to be alive." He says fiercely. He lets his hands move to tangle in the hair at Sam's temples, to pull his brother's face up just an inch so that they are breathing in each other's breath. "Only thing that's ever mattered is that you lived." Then he presses his mouth to his brother's, firm but soft, hesitant and yet not. He knows Sam won't push him away. It's just a question of how close he'll let him get.

A sob escapes past Sam's lips, bubbling thickly out of his throat. He sounds like he's dying. Dean pulls his lips back, stares into Sam's eyes, which are mere shades lighter than his own.

"I've got to save you." Sam whispers brokenly. He leans forward and lays a desperate kiss on Dean's lips. He pulls back a moment later and his hands have moved up lay flat over Dean's bare chest. "Can't let you die, Dean. I can't do it." He lets his head fall onto Dean's shoulder. Dean wraps him in his arms, holds him so tight he knows it must hurt, but he doesn't care. 

"You can't save me, man." And Dean thinks it would hurt less to tear his own heart out then it does to say the next words. "That's part of the deal. If I try to get out of this- you- you-." He stops because he can't swallow around the words. He can feel Sam struggling again, trying to pull away from him, but Dean won't let him. And he's still got at least a few years more of training against Sam's exceptional height and size. "You'll die, Sam. Drop right dead at my feet. And you can't do that." Sam stops struggling, practically goes limp in Dean's arms.

"No hope then." He says softly, voice like a spirit, against Dean's neck. His breath on Dean's damp skin makes him shiver. "Dean." His name is a high, keening noise in his brother's voice.

He lowers his face, nudges at Sam's until Sam lifts his face enough for Dean to kiss him again. Sam's hands trail down his chest to rest on his hips, digging in hard as he opens his mouth to Dean. Dean's moan is swallowed by Sam's eager, fucking perfect mouth, and Sam's tongue is tasting and teasing. He lets Sam back him up slowly, moving step by careful step until the back of his knees hit the motel bed and he falls back onto it, with Sam falling heavily on top of him.

…….

It should be harder to do this, to cross this unspeakable line. But it isn't. It's easy as breathing to run his hands down his brother's muscled body, feel the hitch of his breath in the sudden movement of his chest. It's easy to kiss his full lips fiercely, feel the life and the pulse of blood in his veins as he licks his way down his neck. It's easy and it's impossible.

He's breathing hard, and he can't seem to catch his breath. Dean is barely covered by the motel towel, but Sam can't help but grind his hips into his and try to get them closer. Dean makes a low noise, a sound that lands somewhere between a hiss and a moan. Sam raises his head to kiss it from his lips. Dean's hands tangle in his hair and pull hard.

"Dean. Dean, please." He doesn't even know what he's begging for; Dean's hands on him, his mouth, his life, the beat of his heart for more than a god damned year, all of it.

Dean flips him over easily, and he's got Sam's shirt off in one smooth motion. He lies down over Sam so that they're bare skin to bare skin. The feel of it, the heat of it, makes Sam's eyes roll back in his head and a desperate moan leave his lips. Dean's hands are slow and steady, not shaking the way they were before, against the wall. Sam keeps his eyes closed; he can't stand to look at Dean right now. He tries to concentrate on the feel of dry, somewhat calloused, hands as they run over his skin, and remove the rest of his clothes.

"Dean." The desperation is bubbling back up and it makes him shake twice as hard as before. "I can't- you can't- god, don't leave me, Dean. Please. I need you." Dean kisses him hard, but his hands are still gentle.

"Shut up, Sammy. I love you, but you have to shut up because I can't- I can't listen to your voice anymore, man." Sam opens his eyes and looks at Dean above him; his eyes are dark and clouded, still wet and glistening with tears. And that does shut him up, because he doesn't know what to say to that face.

Dean kisses his neck, nipping and licking over the sensitive skin. His hands move lower and his mouth bites the line of his collar bone. Sam bites his lip hard because he doesn't trust himself to stay quiet. He's so hard it hurts, and every sweeping brush of Dean's hand over his hips and down his stomach makes his cock jump. He can feel Dean's pressing into his thigh as they rock together.

It's too much, all this contact, everything laid bare, the tears between them. Sam can't keep his mind of any one thing and he can't, just can't get his breath back, or seem to stop shaking. Dean puts just enough space between them to look up at Sam, and Sam forces himself to watch his brother's face.

Dean reaches a hand up, softly tracing the lines of Sam's lips until Sam opens them slightly, sucks one long finger into his mouth. Dean's eyes flutter close for a minute and Sam sucks just a little bit harder, letting his teeth graze his brother's skin. Sam watches, fascinated and silent now, as Dean pulls his finger from Sam's mouth and brings that same hand back down his body, almost but not quite brushing over Sam's straining cock, before dipping down between his spread legs.

When Dean's finger enters him, slowly and carefully because they don't have lube or anything else to help ease the way, he cries out and bucks against Dean. He's torturously slow in prepping Sam, careful and easy, as if Sam were the one living on borrowed time. By the time he has three fingers in Sam, Sam is thrashing on the bed; moaning through gritted teeth, his hands clawing at Dean's shoulders because if he can't get closer to Dean soon he's going to lose his mind, or maybe die all over again.

"Dean, fuck, now, damn it." He growls out, reaching out to grab Dean's neck and pull him in for a kiss that's more violent than passionate but still seems to get the point across. Because the minute he lets Dean's lips free Dean is pulling his fingers out and reaching to the floor, to his jeans, where even Sam knows a condom is waiting. He grabs Dean's hand and stops him. He glares at the questioning glance Dean gives him. "No. Just you." Dean opens his mouth to argue. "I don't care, damn it, and you owe me. I want you, just you. And I don't care what fucking comes of it." He fights back the sob that closes off his chest, tries not to let the tears fall, but even as he closes his eyes he can feel them leaking past his lashes.

He doesn't actually expect acquiescence, but Dean doesn't fight him on this. He just wipes away Sam's tears, still silent except for his ragged breath and the occasional moan. He reaches between them again, and Sam opens his legs wider for him. He feels the head of Dean's cock against his ass and moans, biting hard on his lower lip and tasting blood.

And its heaven and hell and every single dimension in between when he starts pressing in, because he's bigger than his three fingers, and it's just not easy going. But it's worth it when Dean is finally buried deep inside him, body shuddering above him, breath coming in short, high gasps. He looks wild, looking down at Sam, and that would scare Sam a little except that Dean has never scared Sam and never could.

"Okay, Sammy?" Dean asks in a breathless whisper, the first words he's spoken since he told Sam to shut up. Sam closes his eyes, let's his brother's voice wash over him. "Sammy? I need to know you're okay."

"Just move. Need to feel you." He manages to get out. He moves his hands from Dean's shoulders to his face, his long fingers brushing over the high cheekbones, the almost roman nose, over his perfect lips. "Dean." And that's all the encouragement that Dean needs.

……..

They move together after that and even though it's painful at times for both of them it only makes the pleasure all the more sweet. Every ache and burn let's Dean know they are alive. He can see the slight winces in Sam's features, the flaring of his nose, the tensing of his jaw, but whenever he slows the rolling motion of their hips the hands that run ceaselessly over his back and shoulders, pulling him closer, find their way to his face. And there's no mistaking the message in his little brother's eyes. The pain is the cost, those green eyes say, and it's a price Sam will pay.

Dean would stop to wonder if this means they are sincerely fucked up now, if the pleasure will ever be without the pain, but he doesn't want to think about anything other than Sam and the smell of his sweat, the taste of his skin, the feel of his tight heat wrapped around him. 

He presses in deeper into Sam and leans forward to rest his forehead against Sam's. And then he can't shut up. He's close and no orgasm has ever felt like this one. Sex has never felt like this. And he can't shut the fuck up about it although he really wishes he could. But he needs Sam to know, needs him to hear.

And so, as Sam shoots hot and sticky between them, and as his ass seems to milk Dean dry so that he comes mere seconds after his brother he can only repeat, over and over again, against the flush skin of his brother's forehead, his lips, his neck;

"I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you."

He knows that the same words roll desperately off of Sam's lips. And it's all that matters, all that can ever matter from here on out.

……

For hours they doze; wrapped together, Sam around Dean's warm body and bundled under the blankets. It's quiet and peaceful, just for this precious stretch of time; the universe giving them an all too brief break.

When Sam wakes there are just a few streaks of light in the sky. It's too cold outside of the blankets and too warm underneath, they're sticky and he aches in places he never even imagined, but he doesn't care. He wants to stay in his brother's arms; Dean's grip seems to have only tightened as they slept. But his mind is working over time.

He already has several ideas forming in his head. Some of them he thinks might be good; some of them he knows are suicidal. All of them though, he knows, he can't tell Dean about. The way Sam figures it, Dean's the one who made the deal. So fine, Dean can't try to find a way out. And just to be safe Sam is assuming that means he can't knowingly let Sam try either. But that just means that Sam's going to have to be able to pull off the hardest scam he ever has.

He has to let his brother think he's accepting his death. And he needs to find a way to stop it.

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(The End-Chapter One)


	2. Beneath Glastonbury

-1**Title:** Orpheus Drowning (chapter two)  
**Rating: **NC-17  
**Characters: **Dean/Sam (Wincest)  
**Summary: **Sam has one plan, and one chance. (Spoilers for Seasons 1 & 2)  
**Disclaimer: **So not mine, if they were I would have better things to do then write about them.**  
**

**Author's Notes:** First time writing in this fandom. And so we continue with Chapter 2. Most of the mythological stuff in this chapter and the chapters to come are a culmination of myths and fables, turned into something mostly unrecognizable and made to suit my purposes. Hopefully it's interesting enough. And also, I hope it's not too 'cracky'. Cause it might be a little weird. Eh, hopefully someone will like it! 

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The first real lead Sam finds is seven months later; over two hundred leads turned dead ends, fifteen close call injuries, and thirty-two jobs from the day his brother told him he only had a year to live.

It had taken nearly that long to finally get Dean convinced that Sam would let it go, let him go, when the time came. He'd had to keep the pretense of looking for a way out for Dean for a while, because there was no way that Dean would have believed Sam's immediate acceptance. So they've fought and had their battles about it, and there isn't anything fake about those; Sam really is fed up with how reckless Dean has been on jobs, and he does want to find a way to save him, and Dean is having trouble accepting it himself and he really does want Sam to let it be because he's genuinely terrified of what the Crossroads Demon will view as an attempt at getting out of the deal.

But no matter how many times they've fought they almost always end the night in the same bed. Mostly Sam curls protectively around Dean, long legs wrapped in his older brother's. Sometimes it's Dean who holds Sam. They might crawl into the bed angry; Sam first because Dean always runs out to a bar if he can find one after they've fought, and then Dean in the early morning light, but somehow they end up tangled together. And when they wake in the morning the anger seems pointless because they don't have time for it.

Sam can count the nights when Dean has slept in a chair or on the floor, because he can't stand the closeness, on two hands. Sam knows why Dean sometimes pushes him away, but it still hurts. But even when it hurts, sometimes he's grateful that Dean_ doesn't_ crawl into the bed.

They never discuss the change in their relationship and Sam assumes it's because there just isn't a reason to; it's just the way they are and it's not as if normal has ever been a word that could be applied to the Winchesters. It doesn't matter that they're brothers, or both men, or that Dean is living on so much borrowed time. They aren't good with words really, either of them. Touching is better than words, easier to interpret.

But he's running out of time now, for talking and for touching and he's nearly exhausted every connection that Ellen and Bobby have; including his own, and those of several Hunters that Ellen has managed to get him in contact with. Every lead he's found as led nowhere. The most promising one, an old Native American ritual that was supposed to bind two souls together for eternity, most definitely called for Dean's participation, and that's just not possible if Sam wants to live as well.

There are days when he's tempted to just go straight to the Crossroads Demon herself and kill her. But he doesn't know how and Bobby is of the strong opinion that it wouldn't help. If it were that easy, Bobby tells him, everyone would know it and Sam knows he right.

Finally, Sam stretched his thoughts outside of American contacts. He started searching across the ocean. There must be Hunters everywhere after all. And he thinks he's an idiot for not thinking of this at least six months ago. Because staring him the face, in the form of an e-mail on his laptop computer, is what he's been looking for. Or at least the closest thing he has, the closest thing he thinks he's likely to find. His plan is three-fold; each element distinctly separate from the other, so that if one doesn't work the other might. But he's careful to make sure the elements don't clash either. He doesn't like it exactly, because it's the kind of plan that he can't know will work until he tries it and he can't try it until the time has come.

American myths aren't the only thing steeped in truth and history. And Europe is full of haunted places, and powerful relics.

The only problem he has now is convincing Dean to go with him.

………

Dean thinks his little brother may be losing his mind. They're still at war here, still facing the demons that escaped from hell the night they killed the Yellow Eyed Demon. They don't have much time left for it, and Dean wants to put a sizeable dent in that bastard's army before he spends eternity in hell.

Sammy is naked in his arms, the sheets tangled around them both, his head resting on Dean's chest. His little brother is shaking and it reminds him for some reason of their first time. And Sam's talking quite sincerely about taking a month off; to go to Europe.

Dean's hand, which has been running through Sam's sweat-soaked hair, stops moving. He tilts his head at an awkward angle at the same time that Sam lifts his face to look at him. He's so close to Sam that he has to kiss him, he can't be that close to those lips and not taste them. It's become his new addiction of choice.

"What the hell are you on about, Sammy?" He asks, when he finally pulls away; even though he's hard again, and so is Sam, and he can think of a lot of different things he'd like to use both their lips for instead of talking.

"I want a break, Dean. I want to go somewhere with you where we aren't hunted, or doing any hunting. Just for a little while." Sam answers quietly.

His hand runs lightly over Dean's chest to rest just above his heart and he lets his head fall down over it. Dean can tell by the tilt of his head and his held breath that he's listening to his heart beat. Sammy does this often, usually when he thinks Dean is too out of it to notice. But Dean knows, and it makes his heart beat harder in his chest, as if it's trying to prove something.

"We got a war going on here. We can't just up and leave it." He says, trying to put some anger in his voice. But he can't.

Sam sits up in the bed to look down at him. Dean can't see him well in the dark room, but he can see the shine in his eyes. Dean can't fucking stand it when Sam starts getting weepy over him. Seven months ago he might have called him a girl and gone out for a drink; hell, sometimes he still does that. But as his time gets shorter he finds it harder to put the distance he wanted to between he and Sam.

"Sammy. We can't." He says again, voice warning.

"We have to, Dean. We're never going to get another chance. And I need to get away from this for a while. I can't do this; watch you throw yourself into the hunts the way you have been for the last seven months, like your so damned eager to start your sentence early!" He's nearly shouting towards the end, and his brow is furrowed, his eyes narrowed. Dean winces, and he's glad for the dark, which covers it. "I want a little time for just you and me." Sam says, as if he's swallowing down something intolerable.

"We have this time for us, Sam. Nights like this, in between hunts. This is our time. Hell, the hunts are our time. This is all our time, Sam. Every single freaking minute of it is for you and me." He growls out, putting a hand to the back of his neck and rubbing.

He swings his legs over to get out of bed, but Sam is faster than he is and he's straddling Dean's lap before his legs have moved even an inch away from Sam. He stares up at his brother and leans back on his arms so he can see him more clearly. Sam settles his weight over Dean's hard cock and rocks his hips slowly. Dean moans softly, he can't help it. His hands leave the bed to grip Sam's hips, pull him in closer. Sam lowers his head, his soft hair falling over Dean's face as his lips travel up the stretched expanse of Dean's neck. He reaches his ear and kisses it softly.

"I need this Dean. I agreed to let you go. In a few months I'll be alone. I need to have this month with you. Please." He whispers. He raises his head to look at Dean.

"I- you- that's not- damn it, Sammy." He curses low under his breath because he knows he's lost. He'll give Sam his damned month because Sam, who never uses it against him, has just used the only weapon he has against Dean. "What's in Europe, Sam? Why the hell do you suddenly want to travel?" It's his last ditch effort at holding Sam off. He shudders at the thought of leaving the war for even a day. There's too much to get done before he dies. But he looks at Sam, and knows the most important thing is his brother, it always has been.

"I've always wanted to travel, dude, and I just thought- I thought there would be more time. That there would be an after, but there won't be. It's only a month, and then we'll be right back here, fighting the war again, until the very end. I promise." Sam tells him. Dean tries to ignore the bitterness in his voice when he says 'til the end' but it's hard to miss.

Dean wants to argue that Sam will have an after, that he won't have to live this life forever, but its empty words and he can't bring himself to speak them. The truth is, now more than he was before; he's terrified of what will become of Sam once he's gone. Part of him has been considering leaving Sam before it happens, before his year is up, to make it easier. But just the thought of it makes his stomach roll, and his hands shake. He can't do it, not to Sam, and not to himself.

Sam's hands cup Dean's face, dragging him away from his thoughts. He leans down and kisses him. When he lifts his hips Dean lets a desperate moan into his mouth, because they've already done this once tonight and it's almost easy as Sam sinks down onto him and he's suffocating in the best way in the tight heat of his younger brother's body.

"If you want a month, Sammy, you can have a month." He growls out when he finds his breath again and as Sam rises and falls over him in a torturously slow rhythm. Sam slows even more when he kisses Dean hard on the lips.

"I don't want a month. I want forever." He answers against Dean's lips. "But I'll take the month, because we both know it's all I can have."

And then his face is buried in the crook of Dean's neck and Dean can't tell if he's crying or moaning, or sighing. But his pace increases, and Dean's hips move to meet his. He's so close already and he can tell by the tension in Sam's arms, wrapped around him, in the way the muscles of his legs are shaking and trembling, that Sam is to.

"God damn it, Sammy." He grits out.

He feels his brother tighten around him, feels the heat of Sam's release between them, and the bite of his teeth in the corded muscle of Dean's shoulder. He comes with Sam, inside of him, and he swears he sees white lights every time he does.

………..

Sam's not sure that visitors are allowed up Glastonbury Tor at night but that's never stopped him before. He parks the rental car miles away and walks.

When he gets to the base of the hill he resigns himself for a long hike up a mostly dark hill. His only saving grace is that the moon is full tonight and the cold air is clear. He can almost see it as good as he could in the day, when he visited with Dean, who is sleeping at the moment. Drugged, to be exact, and Sam doesn't like to think of having done that to his brother, but he couldn't risk Dean waking up in the middle of the night and finding him gone. His brother is already suspicious. Not openly, of course, but Sam knows the way the Dean is watching him.

It takes him hours to reach the top of the hill, though not the very top because what he's looking for is a bit below that; a different magic and a different myth. He looks around him. The moonlight is so clear it might as well be daylight but that doesn't make what he's looking for any easier to find. He pulls an old, nearly ruined, leather book out of his bag and flips through the pages. At the movement of the pages there is a roll of thunder. He glances up, but the sky is still clear. He's not sure if this is a good sign or a bad one, but he'll take whatever he can get at the moment.

He finds the page he's looking for and with a wary look at the sky, and a scan of the surrounding hills, he begins to read.

Gaelic is a hard language and not one he's used to speaking. Latin he knows, of course, but this is harder. He went over the pronunciation with the guy that Bobby had gotten the book from and he's been practicing the damned incantation every night since he's gotten it. The wind picks up, and it's blowing hard enough that he has to spread his legs out and duck his head down to keep his footing. The thunder is a continuous roll now, but there's no lightning and no rain.

He thinks he's done it justice though, when he's finished. And he takes a knife from his bag and cuts open his palm. He hisses quietly at the sting of the blade. He kneels slowly and presses his hand to earth. It's probably his imagination, but it seems to ripple beneath his touch. He closes his eyes and whispers the last line of the incantation again.

The thunder rumbles low one last time before silencing, and the wind stops along with it. He opens his eyes, feeling the eyes of something staring at him. But there is nothing around him, nothing moves or makes a sound. And that's what makes him realize something has happened.

He turns slowly, and isn't quite shocked to see an open archway leading into the hill itself.

It's silver in the moonlight and dazzlingly bright. There are runes he can't begin to translate all around the archway, carved into stone that looks as though it's made of crystal and marble. He takes a shaky step towards it and feels the wind again, like a caress now, on his neck and through his hair. It feels, however impossible and unlikely, like Dean's hand running over him. He closes his eyes for just a moment, and when he opens them he walks forward confidently, Dean's face in his minds eye.

He pauses at the archway, feeling a moment's hesitation. He squeezes his injured hand. His blood spatters on the first of many crystalline steps that lead down, forever down, into light so bright he can't see clearly. Better than dark, his mind provides, but he's not sure he agrees. Sam's staring at the blood, at the way the stone seems to soak it all in. It's his blood, and his father's and most importantly it is Dean's. And nervous or not, he takes the first step, and then the next.

………

He has no idea how long he has been walking down the stairs when he comes to the bottom. He knows his hand is throbbing around the wound on his palm, his calves are screaming, and his heart is pounding. Around him he can hear the sound of ocean, the silvery tinkle of bells, and what he thinks might be the music of a lyre, but he's not sure. He can't really see anything; it's all still mostly light with very few shadows. And here at the end of the endless stairs, which is somehow a rolling hill and somehow the dock of an ancient ship and yet also an empty church yard there is a basin of water. The basin is carved with dancing figures, most of them naked and fae-like. It's the only thing that doesn't shift or change as his eyes move. The water within it glistens, clear and cool, and it smells of fresh springs. It calls to him. He's so thirsty all of the sudden.

He knows better though, knows the legend of the faerie and how he should eat none of their food, and swallow none of their drink. But he also knows he has to. Sam has come for help, and if the legends and the stories and the myths are true, he needs to prove his trust. He steps forward to the basin and places his injured hand in it. The bleeding hasn't stopped, and he knows it should have by now, but he tries not to think about that. His blood swirls up through the clear water, muddying it. He cups his hand and brings it to his lips. The water is clean and cool and refreshing, but he can taste the copper of his own blood as well, and somehow he knows that's important.

Still he's suddenly filled with knowledge. There is a whole world below this hill, within it. It stretches, he thinks below all the hills in all the world. The land of the faerie is vast and unending. It's no wonder people feared it, no wonder people were never meant to know this. The knowledge leaves him shaking and feverish. He's sweating and freezing and burning away all at once.

The hand that reaches around him to touch his forehead is cool and soft, like a mother's touch on a sick child's skin. He turns.

The voice is a whisper of wind in his mind. It blocks the knowledge of the faerie world from him, and he feels an easing in himself. You know who I am. In almost all my names, you called to me from your blood. I am a goddess and a queen and a woman. I was a wife and a lover once, though never a mother. I am a betrayer and a witch. You know all these things. But you know also, that I have never willingly harmed a mortal man, though I have led good men to harm in my name. He shudders. Peace, little warrior, I mean you no harm, though you may bring harm to me before the end.

"I'm not going to harm you." He says, trying to firm his voice, but he's pretty sure he sounds like a dumb ass. His voice sounds too loud in his own ears. He's seen a lot of crazy things in his life, but somehow this is a totally different thing.

The woman in front of him is more than he could have imagined; she is beauty personified, with endless waves of dark hair and eyes so light he can't name a color for them. Her skin is milk and moon pale. Her veins are blue and visible beneath flesh that looks too delicate to not tear at the slightest movement. Her limbs seem just a little too long, and her face is hard and angular. There is a circlet on her brow, and its light is actually brighter than any other, but it does not blind him.

No, you mean no harm. But that does not mean you will not cause harm. There is a pause in her sending and he can feel her sigh in his mind. It is a great danger you bring to this place, just by standing before me. She looks at him searchingly. But if all you are thinking is true, perhaps there will be danger no matter how we hide. Her head tilts to the side and he tries not to think about ghosts or demons. She chuckles lowly, as if she's heard him anyway. You have come to ask something of me?

"I- I need-." He chokes on his words. His research, all his contact's research, did not prepare him for this.

You need only think it for me to know what it is you seek. She tilts her head and he hears the silver tinkle of bells. Tell us though, little warrior, do you truly deserve that which you seek?

"No." He answers immediately, because it's the truth, and somehow he knows better than lie here, to lie to her. "I don't deserve it, I-." He licks his lips, but his mouth is dry. "I don't think anyone could. But I need it and I'll – I'll pay any price for it." His truth, the only truth he has.

It is the only truth you need. She reaches a pale hand out and touches the top of his head. She is a head taller than he, a giant. Would you pay with your life, little warrior, if that were the price I asked?

"I-." He thinks of Dean, and it's not like he needs to be a genius to know his brother won't stand for living while Sam is dead. That's what got him here in the first place. If this is the price, he's come all this way for nothing.

So that is your dilemma. Well then, it is good for you that your life is not the price I ask for. He stares at her. You gave the sacrifice of blood, and you drank from our chalice though you knew the risk. You hear the music of his lyre, and the call of the ocean in which the blade was tempered. She looks sadly down at him, and there are tears in her eyes. But all these things may not be enough. Her hand traces down his cheek. The touch makes him crawl in his skin.

"I'll make them be enough." He tells her. And he means it. His plan is three-fold, and it has to be enough. She smiles then.

Did you know, little warrior, that destiny is not what makes a man great? It is purpose that creates a man and a man who creates his destiny. There is a far away look in her eyes, as if she is remembering something further back than he can know. When her eyes return to him they are darker than they were and he can see the stars falling in them. It has been ages since a mortal man has come here. And longer still since any being within these hills has granted the request of a mortal man. We disappeared from the world of men, to keep our home safe. But you fight the war we saw coming a very long time ago, little warrior, and even a queen may get tired of sitting behind her castle walls. She turns away from him, but her hand beckons him to follow. Come now, little warrior, for your truth and your fight I will give you what you ask, since they are mine to give or keep as I will. Though I tell you again even all three may not be enough.

……….

When the archway disappears behind him he no longer feels the world beneath the hills. It's a physical relief so great that he has to sit. His legs are weak, his heart is beating too hard, and he thinks he might throw up. Of all the odd things he has seen and been through, this is the worst and somehow the greatest.

Magic is not something to be trusted. That was the lesson John Winchester drilled into his sons' heads. Magic, demons, spirits, none of them know how to speak a whole truth. But Sam can not say it's a lesson that has stuck, and he doesn't think he'll worry about the reprimand of a man who made a deal with the devil for his sons soul. That's its own kind of magic. That's the kind of magic Dean and his father can accept. This, what has happened to him tonight, is the kind of magic Sam can accept. It's the kind of magic he's going to make himself accept.

He lifts his head and looks around. And his chest swells with relief and gratitude, because he's nowhere near the top of the Tor. He doesn't think he could have made the trip back down. He looks up at the sky and it alarms him that it seems as if no time has passed at all. Alarms him, but he's grateful for that as well. When one is living on borrowed time as it is, it's best not to look gift horses like these in the mouth.

He makes his way back to the car, his hand closed in a tight fist. He falls into the driver's seat and just sits for a while, easing his breath and trying to calm his heart. Eventually he reaches for the glove box. He grabs his cell phone from it and flips it open. He's dialing as he turns the engine and begins to slowly drive away. He's careful, because he's still a little out of it.

When Bobby picks up the phone his voice is thick with worry.

"Sam?" His voice is hard to hear through the static, but Sam can make out what he's saying.

"I got them, Bobby. I got them." The hand not on the wheel of the car tightens more and he can feel what he holds digging into his palm.

"Are you serious? Jesus Christ, Sam." Sam's nodding even though he knows Bobby can't see him. "Well, that's one down, if you can even use them. I still don't see how they can be used for the two of-." Sam cuts him off because he can't explain to Bobby that they will work.

"I have to go. Can't drive like this. I'll call you when I get the next one." Sam tells him. And then he's closing the phone, throwing into the passenger seat and speeding back towards the hotel.

………..

Dean is still out when he gets there. He doesn't mutter or mumble or even twitch when Sam comes in the door. Sam strips out of his shirts, throwing them carelessly across the room. He walks slowly, carefully, even though he knows there's little that could wake Dean at this point, and kneels, half naked, at the bedside. Dean's face is peaceful in his slumber, which seems to be somehow more natural then when Sam left. The drugs must be wearing off. There's a pang of relief in his stomach. But he knows that only means he needs to work faster.

There's a needle in the small bag underneath the bedside table that holds most of their medical supplies. He takes the bag out carefully and pulls out the needle, holding it up to look at it. The moon is still out, but he can hear the birds start to cry. He rolls Dean over carefully and his brother murmurs something in his sleep.

Sam looks down at him, hesitating for just a moment. But it's only a moment. Any guilt he feels or will feel is assuaged by the fact that he's saving Dean's life, his soul, and Dean will just have to forgive him for the rest. He places his large hand above Dean's heart. Slowly and carefully, his hand somehow not shaking for once, he pricks his brother's muscled chest. Five times for the five points of the Devil's Trap right above Dean's heart. His brother twitches, eyebrows furrowing and he mutters in his sleep, but doesn't wake.

Sam winces as he runs his finger tip through the blood that wells up. He's ignoring the part of his brain that screams blood magic and demands that he stop. He doesn't care if it's magic or what kind of magic it is. It only matters that this works.

Sam raises Dean's hand and holds it against his bare chest. Dean's lips part in a half smile and he lets out a sleepy sigh. Sam stares for a full minute, heart hammering. He's so close to finishing this. If Dean wakes now- but he doesn't. Deah makes a low snorting noise and then he's still again. Quickly Sam brings the needle to his chest, five precise marks over his heart, pressing carefully between his brother's fingers. It hurts, more than it should for five tiny pinpricks. There's a lot more blood too. He looks down at Dean to see him frowning in his sleep.

From the pocket of his jeans he pulls something out; his gift from a goddess, from a queen. He holds them up and they sparkle in the fading moonlight, in the growing daylight, just as the gate did. They appear to be made of marble and crystal. Carved into each of them is a small groove that goes all the way around. He rests the rings on his sleeping brother's stomach and without hesitation pulls his hands through the blood that has welled up on their chests. When his palms are smeared he grabs the rings. He closes his hands tightly around them and whispers one word and one word only, inaudible to even his own ears. A forbidden word, but one he has been gifted with. When he opens his hands the blood is gone from them, there's a thin line of red in the groove carved into the rings, shining slightly like garnet stones.

Now his hands are shaking. He takes one ring and slips it onto his sleeping brother's finger. He takes the other and slips it onto his own. His finger feels numb for a moment but it passes. He stares at the rings, thinking that something should be happening. He takes Dean's hand in his, hears the soft clack of stone on stone. The rings fit perfectly, as though they were meant for them, though Sam knows that's impossible because these rings were meant for only two people.

He's suddenly sleeping, tired and weak beyond what he should be. It makes him nervous but he's too tired to do anything about.

"Gonna save you, Dean." He whispers as he leans forward to kiss his sleeping brother's lips, and that takes the last of his energy. He closes his eyes, lets his head rest against Dean's forehead.

He dozes off like that; on his knees by his brother's bedside, their fingers laced together, foreheads touching. He dreams of the music of a lyre playing over an ocean that never ends. But Dean is beside him in the ocean, the water coming to his waist. He's silent and stoic. But when he looks at Sam there's a glint in his eyes, a mischievous tilt to his lips, that gives Sam hope.

…….

Dean's head feels stuffed full of cotton. He aches everywhere and moving isn't an option for a full ten minutes after his first conscious thought. When he finally opens his eyes the sight before him causes a low chuckle of amusement.

"You are a freak." He says loudly, staring at his brother, who is sleeping, sleeping; half naked, on his knees, his freakishly long fingers all tangled in Dean's, his forehead resting against Dean's. Sam's eyes open slowly. "Why the hell didn't you just get in the bed?" He asks, moving his head back just enough to not have to go cross eyed to look at his brother. Sam looks at him with sleepy eyes; eyes that roam over his chest and down to their joined hands and widen just a fraction. "Dude!" He snaps, to get Sam's attention. Sam looks back at him but it takes him a minute to find his voice and reply.

"You were drunk, man; I was worried you were going to throw up on me. And I love you and all, but I draw the line at vomit in the bed." Sam says, his voice scratchy. Dean shoves him lightly and he goes sprawling onto the floor, eyes closed again. He groans a little. "You feeling okay?" Sam asks him and Dean looks down at him. Sam cracks one eye open to look at him.

"Feel like I got hit by a freaking truck, how do you think I feel?" Dean snaps, but his heart's not in it and he isn't really angry.

Dean gets up carefully. He does feel like he kicked back about ten too many. It's been some time since he's been this wiped, but he figures maybe it's just the foreign dink. He starts the shower, waits for the water to warm up and takes a look at himself in the mirror. He looks like hell. Not for the first time he feels the roll of worry in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't want to waste away. He has visions of going down fighting and he needs that to happen.

He puts his hands over his face, rubbing eyes that feel like an entire beach has been poured into them. He opens his fingers to look at himself again. No, he still looks like crap.

For some reason his finger is itching. He scratches at it, but there's no mark there, and the itching continues. It almost feels as if something is irritating the skin, just below the surface. He gets in the shower and tries to ignore it, it's not like it's so bad he can't deal. He probably jammed the finger on something. His chest is sore too. He's beginning to wonder if he got into a bar fight and Sam just neglected to tell him. Dean can't remember past his fourth beer with Sam.

He makes the water hotter, hoping it will ease the ache and clear his head. Hoping it will burn color back into his skin.

He hears the bathroom door open and the shower curtain is pushed aside. Sam climbs in, long limbed and beautifully naked. It's probably very girly of him to think of his brother as beautiful but there really isn't another word for him that Dean knows.

Sam presses up behind him and pushes him against the tile of the shower. His mouth is biting and nipping and licking a path down Dean's neck. Dean groans softly; he's a huge fan of morning sex, best remedy there is for a hangover in his opinion. The tile is cold but Sam is all heat. His large hands come around Dean's body, one resting over his heart, Sam's usual resting place. The other twines with his own hand.

"Love you, jerk." Sam mutters into his ear just as he bites down on the soft lobe. Dean shivers, but feels a smirk cover his lips.

"Yeah, you too." He says back and he's rewarded with a rolling thrust from Sam. He groans as he pushes back against Sam. "Bitch."

Sam's snorts, amused, and Dean can picture the look on his face even though he can't see him. He grins wide.

"I'm not the one pushed against the shower tiles." Sam says darkly in his ear, and Dean's cock twitches at the voice. He's convinced there isn't much hotter than Sammy on a power trip, and it doesn't happen nearly often enough.

Dean is too busy concentrating on the feel of Sam's hands all over him, the heat of his body, the softness of his lips to notice that as soon as Sam touches him the ache in his chest is gone, and his finger is no longer itching.

He's too busy feeling alive to feel anything else. And he'll never know how well that works in his and Sam's favor.

……………………………………………………………………………………..


	3. The Dark Heart

-1**Title:** Orpheus Drowning  
**Rating: **NC-17  
**Characters: **Dean/Sam (Wincest)  
**Summary: **Sam has to come to grips with the deal Dean made. Dean has to deal with a broken Sam. Secrets are kept, admissions are made, all in the name of finding a way to break their pattern of each trying to die for the other. (Spoilers for Seasons 1 & 2)  
**Disclaimer: **So not mine, if they were I would have better things to do then write about them.

**  
Author's Notes II:** This turned out to be a monster of a chapter. Holy crap. Hope it's worth it. I'm posting it in two parts, because it's just ridiculous and LJ is being a bitch to me today.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Sam knows Dean hates flying and if there was any other way to get them from one place to the other he gladly would. But there's nothing to be done for it and so he consoles him as best he can without seeming to, because he has to be careful of his big brother's pride.

Consoling on the flight to Greece meant finding a way to fit both of them into the bathroom of the small plane, which was no easy thing considering how broad Dean was and how tall Sam was. It was ridiculous, and Sam had seen the way the stewardess was looking at them as they left the plane. Dean and his never ending sex drive were going to get them deported.

"We could have fit her in there with us, you know." Dean says with a grin, and Sam narrows his eyes at him. Only an hour or so off the plane now, and getting ready to leave the hotel, Dean is practically bouncing. Maybe the sex drive is directly related to the fact that they aren't hunting. Sam thinks that's probably as good an explanation as he'll come up with.

"Could have fit just the both of you." Sam returns, giving his brother a smile that's half a snarl. Dean laughs and reaches up to stretch an arm around Sam's shoulders.

"Ah, Sammy, who knew you had such a jealous streak?" He's all jovial smiles and shoulder squeezing and good natured-ribbing. Honestly, some days Sam thinks he prefers Dean when he's sulking over something. "It's okay, I think it's cute. Really. Makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside." Dean's hand snakes underneath his shirt and Sam shoves him away. Dean's laughing. "I mean it, dude, I feel the love!"

Sam shakes his head and watches his brother as he walks, practically swaggers, out of the hotel and into the sunshine. Sam stops walking for a moment, hand on the glass door that leads to the street. Dean's putting his sunglasses on, moving his fingers from the dark plastic to run through his unruly hair. There's a shit-eating grin on his face, and for the first time in months he doesn't look haggard. It's been a little over a week since Glastonbury. Sam only has two more weeks before Dean will start demanding they head back home. They've made other stops, of course, because Sam needs to make this look like a vacation, not a hunt. But he's getting anxious now because two weeks might not be enough time. Even so, Sam takes a moment to stop and stare. His brother is here with him now, and if his plan doesn't work, oh god if it doesn't work, he wants this moment to remember. Dean; painfully beautiful, alive, smiling, maybe even happy. Sam loves him so much in that moment that it's hard to contemplate ever having loved anyone else, ever.

Dean turns and catches him looking. The smile slips a little, but only in a way that lets Sam know that Dean is aware of what he's feeling.

"Come on, Sammy. No time to waste. We got ruins to run through and temples to desecrate. Romantic hikes up ancient mountains." He walks back over to Sam; swagger gone from his walk, though there's still a beat to it. He puts his hand on Sam's neck, just below his jaw and pulls his head down so that they're touching foreheads. "If you were a real romantic you'd put a ring on my finger." He says, voice low and serious, though there's a gleam his green eyes that gives away the joke. Then the grin is back, and he kisses Sam hard before he turns away. His hand catches Sam's elbow and pulls.

Sam lets himself be dragged, stunned into acquiescence by Dean's words and his kiss and that damned smile. He looks down at his hand, at his finger, and even though there's nothing to be seen he can feel the cool weight of the ring. It's as if it's underneath his skin, but he's aware of it. When he and Dean are together, when they clasp hands, he can feel- something. He's not sure what, but it's something. Sometimes he sees Dean rubbing his finger, but since Dean never asks about it Sam just lets it be. The less Dean wonders, the better for them both.

"Dude, seriously, we ain't got time for the angst. Let's go." Dean has stopped them both and he's staring at Sam. Sam forces a grin, and finds it's not as hard as he thought it would be.

"Yeah, alright, man, let's go." Sam doesn't say anything about the fact that Dean keeps hold of his arm. He likes the feel of Dean's warmth through his shirt sleeve. It makes him think he might be winning after all.

…….

Dean's starting to think that Sam's assertion that they needed time off was right. He's not going to tell Sam that of course, he still wants to get back in the fight, and there's a look in Sam's eyes sometimes that tells him he'd keep Dean out of it until the moment he drops dead if he could. But he's been feeling better all week, some quiet easing in his chest that makes breathing, joking, smiling, easier. He kisses Sam often; because he wants Sam to smile too and it seems like the more time passes the less he sees of that dorky, wide, brighter-than-sunshine smile.

Sam has an itinerary planned out for them, but the damned thing has them bouncing all over Europe with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Dean doesn't care either way, but Sam is usually more practical than that in his planning. He figures it's probably just Sam over thinking the way Dean would want to do this. But none of that matters as long as Sam walks away from this with what he's looking for; some memory of them to keep with him that has nothing to do with demons or devils. It's not a hard wish to understand. Some part of Dean has wished for it too.

So he grins at Sam, keeps a hand on his arm, or on his shoulder, or sometimes on his neck, and they hike it up to the Temple of Apollo. He's sweating by the time they make it there, even though it's not an especially long or hard walk, and he stands for a while, just looking down on the ruins. He's not usually one for taking the time to admire his surroundings, at least not for the simple pleasure of it, but it's a clear day; the sky is more blue than he can ever remember seeing it, the surrounding mountains are lined against the sky in vivid detail, and it's just so vast, so old.

"Jesus." He breathes.

He looks over at his baby brother, expecting to see his wide grin. Instead Sam's face is grim, staring down at the ruins, eyes moving as if he's searching for something. His hands are in tight fists, and his jaw is clenched. Dean's eyes squint, lip quirking in an almost questioning, worried smile.

"Sammy?" He lets the questions slide into his tone; worry and concern, because there's something fathomless about Sam's eyes even though the expression on his face is familiar.

He walks up to him, still watching him carefully. He sees the moment Sam finds whatever it is he was looking for. The dark eyebrows raise, eyes wide again, and his mouth falls slightly open. His head nods, so minute a movement that Dean's not sure he sees it all. There's been no wind but a sudden breeze cools the sweat on Dean's neck and he shivers. For just a moment there's something, a noise, a thought, tugging at his mind, but then it's gone. He shakes his head and reaches for Sam, gripping hard on his shoulder. Sam jumps, whips his head around to stare at Dean with wide eyes that Dean knows aren't fully seeing him. That something fathomless seems to be gone though.

"What the hell?" His voice is rougher than he meant it to be, but there's still the feeling that he's missing something important here.

"Sorry, dude, sorry. I ugh- I got caught up in it I guess." Sam's face slips into an easy smile, the kind of smile Dean had been expecting in the first place.

"It's fine, man; you just seemed out of it, like you were looking for something." He pauses, still watching Sam's face. "You looking for something in the ancient ruins, Sammy? Like something to save my ass from a deal you said you'd let be?" He raises his eyebrow, angry smirk pulling at his lips. Sam's smile falls.

"Fuck you, Dean. I said I'd let it be, and I have." He pries Dean's fingers off his shoulder and starts walking away; it's a long hike down to the actual ruins.

"Sam!" Sam turns on him, faster than Dean expected, fisting his hands in Dean's shirt and shaking him a bit.

"Don't piss on this, okay? I'm trying to enjoy this like it isn't the last five months of your life. And you being a suspicious jerk? It's not helping." His voice is barely more than a harsh whisper by the time he's done.

He shoves Dean away, not hard, just enough to let Dean know he's pissed. He stares down at him, eyes narrowed in annoyance. The sun hits his eyes at just the right angle, makes them golden green and too bright. Dean looks away, he has to, runs his hand over his face. When he looks back up, Sam is damned near pouting, but his face is serious. He knows he should trust Sam, but there's always a small suspicion that Sam isn't as accepting as he claims to be.

"Alright, Sammy. I'm sorry. Hey,-." Sam turns away from him, waving a hand at him as if to just dismiss him. "Hey!" He grabs Sam's shoulder again and spins him around. His hand slips behind Sam's neck and he pulls him down, so that they are nearly kissing. "I said I'm sorry, okay? I know you said you'd let it be, and I believe you." He tilts his head up just enough to cover his brother's lips with his own. Sam tastes like life and Dean knows he could never get tired of it, wonders sometimes how he could have gone so long without it. "Let's just chill, and check out the ruins." He pulls away from Sam, who's still looking at him like he's got a bit of fight left.

But Sam lets out a heavy sigh and straightens up. He stares back down at the ruins for a minute. Dean rubs absently at his finger, waiting for his brother to decide if he's going to get over it or be a bitch about it.

"Maybe there are some spirits we can send off." Dean says with a grin. Sam looks at him and shakes his head, but the smile is playing on his lips again.

"Yeah, maybe." He rolls his eyes and starts towards the hill.

Dean follows him, not nearly as careful as Sam is on the steep decline. He makes inappropriate comments about Sam's ass in those jeans until his brother is blushing and laughing and their little fight on top of the hill is almost forgotten.

……….

Sam starts this fight on purpose. He hates, hates more than is rational, wasting this time they have together on fighting. But he needs Dean to go out alone tonight because he doesn't want to drug his drink again. Dean isn't a lightweight when it comes to drinking, and he's going to start figuring it out if Sam does it too often. Besides, Sam doesn't like the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he does it.

So Sam takes the chance provided by Dean as he flirts with a local girl, asking where a good place to party is. The girl's completely Dean's type; pouty lipped, big eyed, dressed just this side of skanky, with a wide grin and a too-easy laugh. She's giving him shy looks, even as her hand runs up the inside of his flannel shirt. Sam's not jealous. Asking Dean not to flirt would be like asking him not to breathe. Sam knows it's just the two of them when it really matters. Honestly, Sam's just thinking that maybe he should worry that his brother is attracted to him. Dean's type tends toward the easy and the flaky.

Either way, he remembers Dean's earlier comment about his jealousy over the stewardess just in time to use it to his advantage.

And when he goes over to put his hand on Dean's shoulder and squeeze a little bit too hard, stare a little too long at the girl with a smile he knows is a very near cousin to a snarl, Dean's immediate reaction gives him an in.

"Problem, Sammy?" He asks, giving Sam a smile that's feral.

"Anytime you're done." Sam snaps. Dean furrows his brow at him, looking genuinely confused.

"I'm just asking Helena here if she knows of any good bars." Dean turns to give the girl a half smirk and a once over with his eyes.

"I'm not really in the mood for a bar anymore." Sam says, giving his brother a humorless smile. He hates this; he says in his head over and over, he hates this. Dean's staring at him like he's got two heads. Some days, he almost feels like he does.

"Dude, you said you wanted to-." Dean begins, but Sam cuts him off.

"I know what I said, dude, and I'm telling you I don't feel like going anymore. Let's go." He turns and starts walking away, vaguely in the direction of the hotel.

He hears Dean's footfall as he comes after him, knows before the hand hits his shoulder that Dean's about to grab him. He turns and puts a hand up between them. Dean's face is confused and angry now, but there are traces of hurt as well and Sam doesn't like that he's put it there.

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean demands, glaring at him. "Why are you acting like a jealous girlfriend?"

"I'm not acting like a jealous girlfriend." His tone if carefully defensive, just enough to make Dean think he's struck a nerve.

"Then what do you call that shit back there?" His brother demands, hands on his hips now, legs braced, like he's prepping himself for something.

"I call it telling you I don't feel like going to a bar."

"Fine, don't then, but I'm going." Dean's all defiance and frustration.

"Whatever, dude." Sam turns to leave, thinking he's in the clear now, it doesn't need to get anymore complicated than this. But Dean's caught the back of his jacket before he can walk away.

"Sammy, c'mon man." Sam closes his eyes. Every damned time he thinks he's got it figured out. He growls in frustration and it's genuine. "Dude, I'm just- you know its not-." The hand isn't holding his jacket anymore; it's lying there, pressing against his back. Dean lets out a small, unsure burst of laughter. "Come on, man, let's just go get a drink." Sam doesn't turn around, he can't.

"You go." He says instead, and then he's walking away and Dean doesn't come after him. It's exactly what he wants, what he was aiming for, but he still hates the way it makes him feel.

He's halfway to where the hike to the Temple begins when an old woman trips into him. The streets are pretty crowded; Delphi is a busy tourist spot and it's still early in the night, just after sunset. He grabs her arms as gently as he can and holds on until she has her balance. When the old woman raises her eyes to look at him he notices the milky white film that covers them.

"I'm sorry. Are you- are you okay?" He asks, he leans down so that he's not towering over her. Her hands on his forearms squeeze lightly.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I always was clumsy." She answers, and her voice crackles like dried paper. "Might help if I was watching where I was going." She laughs at herself. Sam gives an uncomfortable chuckle and let's her go. He's already looking past her, up the mountain. "You won't find it without a guide, you know." The old woman says. Sam looks down at her, eyes wide.

"I don't know what you mean." He tells her, and takes a small step away. He's tries not to jump to conclusions, but his mind is spinning; who or what is this woman? She laughs softly at him.

"I'm just an old woman with a small gift." She tells him. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm not even here to help you. But I could. And you need it." She bends over and picks up the walking stick she dropped when she tripped. He's watching her carefully, his hand already in his jacket pocket, and reaching toward the flask of holy water he has hidden in it. She looks at him, with her blind eyes, and clucks her tongue. "You are a suspicious boy."

"Who are you?" He asks. He has a running list of all the weapons he managed to pack without Dean noticing. Not enough to deal with a demon, more than enough to deal with angry spirits.

"I told you, I'm an old woman with a gift. And I could help you, if you wanted me to. If you did one small favor for me." He takes another step away from her as she takes several more towards him. She walks sure as if the stick is just there for show.

"What kind of gifts?" He's got the flask out now, and his other hand is pulling his knife out of his pocket. She stops moving, tilts her head to the side, and then shakes her head at him.

"They say the descendants of Apollo could do strange things. Things like read a man's mind, only a man's mind you, not a woman's, no. A woman's mind is too complicated. But a man's? Oh I could read a man's mind, blind or no." She smiles at him. "Do you want to know the truth though?" She waits a moment and he's silent, barely breathing, not moving. "I'll take that as a yes."

She turns away from him, heading to the side of the road, where there are large rocks. She takes a careful seat upon one and beckons him closer. He moves in only a couple of steps and then stops. It's only then that he realizes the road seems to have emptied.

"Just tell me what you want." His hand clenches on the knife.

"I want to tell you a story. And I want to help you. And all I want in return is for you bring me something from the labyrinth." She tells him, matter of fact.

"Wha-?" He begins, but she raises a wrinkled old hand to stop him.

"Don't play dumb, boy, it's not pretty." She warns him, but there is no real threat in her voice. Her hair is long and white and hangs loose, and a sudden, warm breeze lifts it to flutter around her face. She was pretty once, he realizes. "You must know that what you seek is not within the Temple itself, but below it." His ring finger twitches, a small muscle spasm that makes him loosen his hold on the knife. "And you need someone with the blood of Apollo himself in order to get into the labyrinth below it."

He takes a small step closer, uncomfortable will her saying what she is across the length of the road.

"Ah, there you go. You see? I am not a demon. I am not even a saint. I'm just an old woman with Apollo's blood in her veins."

He's thoroughly confused. Nothing in his research, or Bobby's, or anyone else's said anything about needing blood, or a labyrinth. Everything he had found, or could fine, or could deduce from what he had found, seemed to indicate that what he was looking for was beneath the crumbled remnants of the altar in the Temple. He'd been looking at the ruins earlier, and he could have sworn he'd felt a kind of pull towards something. His whole hand had ached with the invisible weight of the stone ring. He'd assumed that what he was looking for would be hidden in the rubble somewhere; lost, forgotten, somehow overlooked.

"It's always a labyrinth with us, boy." She tells him with a low chuckle. "What you are looking for was buried there a long time ago, so that none may try to bargain their way out of Tarturus again. But I can help you. And I will."

He's nearly to her now, but he doesn't step any closer.

"What do you want?" She smiles at him, as if she knows she's won. And he knows it too. He doesn't know how he knows, but he knows she's telling the truth.

"There is a bow that has been passed down in my family from generation to generation, Apollo's Bow to be exact, or so we believe." She pauses and let's out a small, sad sigh. "The family has always believed that his arrow was below the Temple. We can open the way, but for some reason we can not enter. So you, boy, you will bring me the arrow. And you can take what you seek, and I will take what I seek. And I will call it even trade for a little blood spilt."

For a long, silent moment she stares at him with her milky, blind eyes. Then he steps forward and offers her his hand. She smiles at him, and takes it. He almost expects it to hurt. But it's just an old woman's hand in his, dwarfed by the size of his.

"Christo." He mutters under his breath. She cocks her head to the side and looks at him.

"You are an unusual boy. Even your thoughts are harder to read than most." She shakes her head slightly. "For instance, I can't see why you are searching so hard, I can only hear the desperation of the search itself." She pauses again, eyes squinting, head tilting. Sam feels his stomach clench. She straightens her head, squares her shoulders and lifts her face up towards his. "Let's get up there then." She says and she laughs again.

…….

Dean's tries to enjoy his beer, tries to forget about Sam, and how he hadn't even turned back to look at Dean. He's failing miserably, has been failing miserably, for almost three hours now. And so all he's really doing is trying to remember if he's done anything today that would make Sam so pissed off at him.

He hadn't thought Sam was really jealous over the stewardess. And he doesn't understand why he would have been jealous of the girl Dean had asked about the bars. Sam was the one who had said he wanted to find a good one; that he needed a lot of liquor to ease the ache in his muscles after hiking all damned day.

He shakes his head, muttering under his breath, and takes another long drink from his bottle. There's a table of girls across the room eyeing him, but it's just no fun without Sam there to watch. And maybe that's stupid and immature, but it's always fun to flirt when Sammy's around to shake his head and give Dean that little half smile of his. He looks toward the door, but his stupid, girly; too-tall brother doesn't come through.

He's tense and the feeling he had back up near the ruins is back; something that itches at the back of his mind, an almost sound, like whispers in his ear. They haven't run into anything unusual since they got here so he doesn't understand why he's getting goose bumps about every damned stray breeze now.

He puts the beer bottle down harder than he means to.

"Easy there, tiger, you break that bottle and it'll be a sad waste of alcohol." A smooth, English accented voice from just in front of him chides. He glances up to see one of the women from the table standing there.

"Wouldn't want that." He answers, alcohol letting the slow drawl of letters slip past his lips so that he sounds just a little more southern than he is. She smiles and takes that as an invitation because she sits down across from him at the table.

"No, we wouldn't want that." She leans onto the table, one hand lifting to prop her head as she leans forward to stare at him. "So my friends and I were wondering why your sitting here drinking all by yourself." She nods her head in the general direction of the table across the room, but her dark eyes stay on his.

"Waiting for someone." He answers, grasping the cool bottle, flashing her a grin and taking another swig. He's never been less interested, but habit makes him keep up the pretense.

The girl looks behind her to the door and then back again.

"Doesn't look like whoever it is your waiting for is showing up. Why don't you let us buy you a couple of rounds?"

Her smile promises more than just drinks. A little over seven months ago and he would have jumped at the chance. He sits up a little straighter; his hand tightens on the beer bottle.

"Yeah sure, I could use a couple more rounds." He stands easily and walks around to her side of the table, offering his hand. She bites her lower lip gently, gives him a look, and takes it.

"Great."

……….

Getting in had been surprisingly easy and that, more than anything, should have let Sam know how difficult it would actually end up being. Dean, he thinks, would love this. It's like being Indiana Jones and Batman all at once. He's never had to jump and roll and duck and sometimes freaking climb his way out of so many traps. He's got a large gash on his ribs from a blade that had come out of the wall and nearly gutted him, but that's the only one he remembers getting.

The entire labyrinth seems endless; he doesn't know how long he's been in it, or how close he is to the end. His hand aches where he's cut it several times, because the old woman had told him that the only thing that would actually mark the way he went was blood. He'd been genuinely freaked by her offer of using hers. Enough to spare, she'd said. And he had gone as quickly as he could down the stairways that had opened up beneath the ruined altar at the first drop of her blood. Sure enough, at the first turn, when he'd nicked himself on the palm and pressed it to the wall the blood stain had grown into a thick line that pointed back the way he had come.

It's dark in the labyrinth, but not pitch black. Light is shining eerily from somewhere, shining through cracks in the wall and sometimes large, gaping holes that lead into new hallways. It's just enough to make it really dangerous, because his eyes can't get used to the darkness. His flashlight only helps so much.

There's a smell that's building as he goes along, something that smells like rotten meat. It's worse the longer he stays down here. Even now, as he follows the hallway he's been in for what seems like hours the smell is getting to be so bad that he has to stop every few feet and try not to retch. He's sweating and bleeding from numerous cuts and scrapes, and he's so thirsty he doesn't know if he could speak even if he had someone to speak with. He feels beaten and bruised; his shoulders ache as if he's carrying extra weight on them.

Just when he thinks he needs to double back, and he's already done it so many times in other hallways, he sees a turn ahead. He can barely make it out in the half light of the hallway he's in, but the light seems to be stronger around that corner. He starts moving faster, feet stumbling over each other once or twice, until he finally forces himself to slow down. It won't do to panic now. He takes a deep breath.

The scream that explodes through the hallway is inhuman but familiar. It stops his heart, makes his blood run like ice water through his veins.

"DEAN!" He's running now through the hallway, towards the corner because that's the direction the scream came from. And he knows that scream, he knows that god damn scream, and how could he have been so stupid as to think he could keep Dean out of this. "DEAN!"

Another scream echoes towards him as he turns the corner, but it's cut off by a thick, wet, gurgle that makes him shudder. He stumbles, falls, rocks cutting into his palms. Beneath his hands he sees another marker form on the ground, colored with his own blood. He stands, feeling lightheaded and sick.

"Dean!" His voice is weaker now, like he doesn't have the energy to use it. But he keeps moving, makes himself move.

He just doesn't understand, how could whatever is down here have gotten Dean?

……...

The heart of the labyrinth is like an ancient stadium. There are stone steps up every side, but they are cracked and crumbling and stained with blood. And below him, as he steps out of the doorway and into the too-bright light of the fires that burn in this room, he sees too many mangled bodies to count.

But in the very center, like some kind of sick main event, is his brother. He's splayed out on a large, flat rock, lying on his back. His shirt is in tatters and there's blood smeared across his chest, Sam can see it even from this distance. His first instinct is to run to him, but he forces himself to take a good look at the room. There doesn't seem to be anything else, not that he can see at least. But the last of his patience and calm is used up.

"DEAN!" His voice is ragged and harsh.

His brother's head turns to face him, and then he's taking off down the stairs as quickly as he can manage without falling. The closer he gets the more blood he can see. There's so much that it's impossible to see where it's actually coming from. He makes it off the stairs and sprints into the center, falling to his knees against the rock his brother is on because they won't hold him up anymore.

"Dean, oh god, Dean." He pushes himself up, arms shaking with the effort. He doesn't even know how he got this tired. Dean turns to look at him and his breath stops. "Dean."

His face, god Dean's face, is a ruined mass of bloody tears; long gashes that travel the length of his face and some that crisscross over his cheeks. His eyes are clear though, clear and staring right at Sam though his expression is blank. Sam raises shaking hands to hover just over his face, but there's no where he can touch that isn't bloodied. Tears burn and sting in his eyes. He tears his eyes away from his face to look down at his chest.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice is weak, barely there, and not even a whisper. A shiver runs up Sam's spine. He can't stop staring at the lines that mark his brother's skin; runes, markings, all over his chest.

"Who did- what is all this? What did this to you? How did you even get down here?" He manages to get his feet under him, adrenaline taking over.

Whatever has happened, this whole thing has obviously backfired and he needs to get his brother out of here. He leans over and puts his arm under Dean's head, lifting carefully. Dean's hand grabs his arm, Sam can't tell if he's pushing him away or trying to lift himself.

"No more, okay?" Blood spills over Dean's split lips. "Please- I can't- you're gonna kill me." His voice is paper thin, guttural like there's too much blood in his throat.

"What? What the hell are you talking about, 'no more'? Dean, what did this to you?" He pulls his brother up until he's sitting. Dean keens softly, eyes closed tight against the obvious pain. Sam cringes as fresh blood spills from the wounds on his chest. "Come on, Dean, careful. We'll get out of here, I promise. Just gotta get you up, man." He puts his hand on Dean's hip, pulls him around carefully until his feet are hanging off the rock.

Dean's hand on his arm tightens painfully. He looks at his brother, but Dean is looking behind him at something. And the fear in his eyes, after how carefully blank they were, only terrifies Sam more. He lets go of Dean, sticks his hand in his pocket to grab the knife, and turns.

The person behind him stops, hands held up in surrender. He's out of range of the knife, but Sam holds it out towards him. The shadows cling to his face so that Sam can't see his features, but there is something alarmingly familiar about him.

"He's mine. You can't have him." There's a smile in the voice, and it makes the hair on the back of Sam's neck stand up.

"What the hell are you? How did you get him here?" Sam demands. He feels Dean's hand grasp his shirt; can hear him gasping for breath as he tries to stand. The figure moves its head to the side, looking past Sam.

"Sit down." The command in his voice is calm and assured. Sam hears a pained grunt and Dean's hand is off his shirt. He chances a look behind him. Dean's looking up at him from where he sits, very still, on the stone. The confusion is very clear in his face.

"You're mine, big brother. You don't say it, but you've always thought it; that you were mine and always had been. Don't you remember?" The man continues. Sam's eyes narrow in confusion. Dean's head falls, as if in defeat. Sam turns back to look at the other man.

"Who the hell are you?!" He screams, he can feel spit and blood fly from his lips, and he bares his teeth in an angry snarl. The man laughs quietly and steps forward, into the light of the fires that are all around the room.

Sam steps back, mouth working but no sound coming out. Time seems to stop, all motion ended, thoughts unfinished, movement stilled. Sam can't breath, can't feel his heart beat, can't feel his fingers or his toes. His eyes don't blink, they're dry and irritated and his vision is suddenly blurred, but he can't close them.

In front of him, coming closer in slow steady strides, is someone that's wearing his face, his whole body. It's himself coming at him, eyes dark and unreadable, face set in a confident smirk, one that Sam's never worn on his own lips. At least, not when he's just himself. A low laugh rumbles through the room, getting louder, as if it's amplified. The firelight flickers and then flares.

"Do you get it now, Sam?" The thing asks, and it's his voice it speaks with, but it's cold and unfeeling. "He's mine. You can't have him; you can't even save him from himself. You don't deserve him. But me? I can save him. I can do anything. Me, I took the world and put it in the palm of my own hand." The smile widens.

Behind him he hears Dean's painful gasp. Sam takes a step away from the rock so that he can look at both Dean and the thing wearing his face. Dean's face is contorted in pain, his neck held at an awkward angle. His eyes dart back and forth between Sam and the other man. Understanding surfaces slowly. Sam licks his lips and takes a step towards the thing that wears his face.

"He's not yours. And this? This isn't saving him." He spits out, he feels the weight of the ring on his finger, beneath his skin for the first time in hours. "You, I know what you are." On the stone Dean's body seems to suddenly relax, he looks as if he might slide off it.

The heart of the labyrinth, the evil that was trapped at its core. And this, this is Sam's nightmare; that Yellow Eyes had changed him, had made him into something that could do this. But this wasn't him, and that- he turns and looks at Dean. Dean is staring at him. That isn't really Dean, just Sam's own heart-wrenching fear; Dean in a hell that Sam himself has made.

"You aren't real." He whispers, before he can stop the words.

"You gotta be kidding me, Sammy. You think I'm not real?" Dean's voice, stronger than it had been, but it's thick with pain and there's still blood pouring from his lips. His green eyes are pleading with Sam. "You gotta get me out of here. Save me, Sam." He stands from the stone, takes a staggering step towards Sam.

Sam can't help it; he dives for him, the knife in his hand clattering on the ground. He catches Dean just as he falls. He can feel his blood soaking hotly through his shirt. Dean's hands grasp weakly at him, but Sam pushes him away so that he can look down at his face.

"Damn it, Sam, please." There's something in his eyes, some demand for understanding.

Sam doesn't understand, he's not sure anymore if this is Dean or not. He feels like Dean and he sounds like him and his eyes, oh god his eyes, they remind him of the way they looked the night Yellow Eyes had possessed their dad.

He finally puts his arms under Dean's and pulls him up, ignoring the sounds of pain that slip past his older brother's lips. He wraps Dean's arm around his shoulders and then puts his own around his brother's waist. He straightens them both up and stares at the demon before them that wears his own face. There's a mocking smile on its lips, his lips.

"You can't save him. That's the point. You aren't strong enough. You think this plan of yours will really work?" A low, dark chuckle as he walks closer to Sam and Dean, step by step. "The only way to save Dean is to do what you were always meant to do. Yellow Eyes had a plan. Even with him dead they'd follow you if you'd take what was yours to take." Sam shudders as it meets his eyes and all he can see is black. "He sold his soul to the devil. But if you step up, if you take your place, well then, the only person he's sold his soul to is you." Sam feels Dean shudder beside him as he lets out a low moan. "Embrace it. It's the only way you're gonna save your poor, big brother from his own self destruction. And no matter how hard you fight, you're going to give in eventually. This-." It gestures down at its body, which is Sam's body but not, and the grin on its face widens. "This really is your destiny. Don't worry though, Sammy, you'll like doing this to him. Breaking him, hurting him, making him bleed. And he doesn't mind really, he's so damned devoted that he wouldn't even fight you. You wouldn't, would you Dean? You'd let little Sammy do anything he wanted as long as he didn't leave you again."

Beside him he feels Dean press something into his hand; a long, thin, piece of wood. His hand clenches around it. He understands and he doesn't, but his hand cramps and his grip on the arrow in his hand becomes painful. He lets his arm fall off of Dean, is vaguely aware of his older brother falling to his knees with a scream of pain, but he's focused on the bastard that wears his face, who tore Dean to shreds. He brings his hand up. The damned thing twists away, turns with a look of shocked anger on its face and snarls.

"Where did you get that?" It snarls, not Sam's voice anymore, or at least not that Sam can recognize.

Sam takes advantage of the moment he's given and takes out his flask of holy water, unscrewing it with one hand, holding out the arrow in his other. He hears its rolling laughter, tries not to be worried by it. It stands again and steps towards him. Sam shakes the flask, the holy water hits its face, his face, and- it does nothing. It laughs even louder.

"You don't get it do you, Sammy? I'm not really a demon. I am you."

Sam lunges, heedless of the fact that he knows he can't make this hit; not with the wounds he's got, not against a demon or whatever this thing is, not with nothing but an arrow in his hand, but he does it anyway. And the arrow slides easily into the thing's ribcage. Sam makes himself meet its eyes.

"Nobody calls me Sammy, but him." He snarls.

"I am you. If you kill me-." It cuts off as Sam pushes up on the arrow, feels it slide smoothly up into where its heart should be.

"Even if you are me, I'd rather be dead than you." He spits.

The smile is still on its face, but it's falling backward, body convulsing until it seems to melt away. The arrow is still in his hand, there isn't a trace of blood on it. The thing looks up at him, eyes blank. His own eyes, not black, just green. He turns away, feels bile rise in his throat.

He doesn't waste time after that. He shoves the arrow in his bag, and then turns back to Dean who is crumpled on the ground. He kneels beside him, helps him up, though he's mostly carrying him because Dean's only semi-conscious.

Getting out is almost harder than getting in was. The light that had been filtering in the cracks in the walls seems to be fading, making it hard to see his own blood-made markers. Dean's little more than dead weight at his side and his own wounds make walking an agony. His hand, the one with the ring on it, is cramping painfully.

There aren't as many traps, thankfully, since it seems as if he'd set them all off just coming in to this damned place. It's one small mercy he's infinitely grateful for.

But eventually he sees the short, wide steps that lead out from underneath the alter. He turns to tell Dean that they've made it, but when he looks over at his brother the words die.

Dean is deathly pale, and his eyes are partially open and unseeing.

"No! No!" He screams, fights blind panic and he just lifts his brother into his arms and starts up the steps.

He doesn't feel the screaming pain in his body, or how his heart trip-traps as if it might give up. None of that matters, because he can't feel Dean's breath on his neck as he carries him.

He collapses once he's back above ground and in the ruins. He's careful to set Dean's battered body down gently before he falls over onto his side, breathing hard, heart slamming painfully against his ribs, and unable to move anymore. He can hear the old woman speaking, but he can't hear her over the blood rushing in his ears.

"Help him, help my brother!" He gasps out, it hurts to talk.

The woman's hand grabs his shoulder and pushes him onto his back. He stares up at her, feeling tears on his face, salt burning the cuts on his cheeks.

"Please help him." He chokes on the words. He's trying to will his body to move, but it isn't listening. There's a string of panicked words coming out of his mouth, but he doesn't think any of them make sense.

The slap, when it happens, shocks him completely into silence. He blinks up at the old, blind woman. She's looking down at him and not for the first time he wonders if she really is blind. Her eyebrows furrow as if she's listening for something. She cocks her head to the side, and he finds himself doing the same. It's easier to breath now; he tries to move his arm up and finds that he can.

"My brother-." He starts.

"Quiet. Listen to what I'm saying, boy." She pauses, and when he remains silent for a moment she continues. "There's no one here but you and me."

He stares up at her, feeling as if ice water has just been dumped on his head.

……….

Dean's halfway through his second round with the girls when his hand cramps, from his fingers to his wrist and it burns and aches. He drops his beer. It fall over, spilling it's frothing contents all over the tabletop and rolls off the table. He watches it, as if in a trance. It crashes to the floor and shatters. Dean pushes back from the table with a jerk.

"Sammy." A breathless whisper, his heart pounds wildly. He doesn't know how but he knows something is wrong with Sam.

"Are you okay?" One of the girls, he can't remember her name. Someone else is shrieking about beer on her clothes. He barely looks up at her, can't tear his eyes away from the broken glass on the floor.

"My brother- I have to- I've got to get my brother." He mumbles, more to himself than in answer to her question.

Another spasm of pain shoots through his hand. He clutches it against his stomach, grits his teeth against he pain. He doesn't know what the fuck he could have done to it to make it hurt this bad. He would have known before this if he'd broken it somehow. And it's not like they've been on any hunts in weeks, or done anything dangerous.

The girls are looking at him as if he's lost his mind. He looks up and around at them all, eyes wild and wide. One of them reaches out for his arm, but he practically leaps away, stumbling and finally kicking over his chair.

He looks back down at the broken glass and feels his heart jump again. He's got to find Sammy.

He grabs his jacket from the floor, where it's fallen, and before he can think of where he's going, or why, he's out the door and heading in the direction of the stupid temple. He can't think of anywhere else Sam would have wandered to.

………

"I can't make sense of a single one of your thoughts. So calm down. You're pretty roughed up."

Her hands are on his face, they sting as they brush over several scratches on his cheek. They go up into his hair, moving slow as if she's checking for something. Head wounds, he realizes belatedly.

"My brother- my brother is-." Panic fills him all over again and he pushes her hands away and forces himself to sit up. "Dean!" He reaches out before even looking towards the place where he lay his brother down.

His hand hits smooth wood and a slightly hollow sound reverberates from it. He stares, wide eyed, at a small lyre. It's much smaller than he'd expected. He had come up with all kinds of crazy excuses to give Dean about why he had bought a lyre. But he could fit this in his bag; get it into his suitcase without Dean ever seeing it. He feels himself grin wide enough to split the cut on his lip that had only just stopped bleeding, but the sting of it doesn't register. It wasn't Dean. It wasn't Dean and he has the lyre. He laughs, a low, rumbling sound at first and then he lets his head fall back on his shoulders and he can't help the loud laughter that bursts out of him.

The sudden burn of pain across his ribs sobers him up. He lifts his shirt carefully, frowning hard when blood makes it hard to pull up. There's a decent gash on his ribs, though he can't remember where he got it from. He doesn't know how he's going to explain his injuries to Dean.

He puts his shirt back down and leans over to grab the lyre, running careful hands over it. His breath stops for a moment when he watches the blood on his hands soak into the wood. He should probably be worried, but he isn't. His hand aches for a moment, a pain that starts at his ring finger and slowly emanates out from there, when he touches it, but it's brief. For a long moment he just stares at it. This, he shakes his head in disbelief; this is what he was looking for. And he'd forgotten all about it the moment he'd seen Dean in there. But he has it now, he actually found it.

He can hear the old woman muttering something, but he doesn't care. Nothing matters now except that he's found two of the three things he came for. And that it wasn't really Dean in the labyrinth. He shudders when he thinks of himself, that version of him in the labyrinth. He tries to push away the doubts that thing had caused. He would never hurt Dean. Not on purpose, no like that. He feels his stomach roll and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

"-appreciate that you've been through something in there, but we need to get going." The woman's words finally sink in. "There's… someone… coming. For you, I think. The thoughts are too far away, too jumbled. But we need to get back down, boy. Quickly."

He looks up at her, and at her words he feels his hand burn slightly. He has an awful idea of whose coming and he can't be found here. He still has to come up with a story about these injuries. He thinks the cut on his rib might need stitches.

He takes an extra shirt out of his bag and carefully wraps the lyre in it before making room for it in his bag. It's as he's shuffling through his things that he remembers the other thing he took from the labyrinth. He pulls it out of his bag carefully and looks up at the blind woman. He reaches for her hand and presses it into her palm.

"That's for you." He says quietly. Her mouth opens as if she wants to say something but she doesn't. There are tears in her milky eyes.

"Oh my. You don't know- you can't know what it means- but-." She wipes at her eyes, then squares her shoulders. "Well come on then, you've got no time. Here." She's rifling through her pockets and comes out with what looks almost like a flask. She hands it to him. "Drink some. It'll smell you up to high heaven. Tell whoever it is you got drunk and mugged. You certainly look like both." Her grip is surprisingly strong as she helps him to unsteady feet.

As soon as he's steady enough to at least stand he takes a long pull from the flask. Whatever it is burns and smells strongly of liquor. He doesn't know if Dean will buy the story or not, but he can't possibly pull his mind together enough to come up with a different or better story.

They're halfway back into the city before he realizes that the old woman is supporting a good deal of his weight, and that he still doesn't know her name.

"My friends, when I used to have friends, called me Ari, boy. You could call me that if you want to." He stumbles and she's barely able to help him stay on his feet. "And anytime you feel up to walking on your own I'm not going to start complaining."

He would love to walk on his own, but he knows he can't. His mind fades in and out of focus, and he's covered in too many small cuts and bruises. It's like being leeched slowly. He feels more faded, more weak, with every step they take.

By the time they reach the city he's stumbling and can barely keep his legs from buckling. And Ari is just an old woman, no mater that she can read his mind, and she's having a hard time keeping him up. He wishes for Dean, and feels his hand throb softly.

………

Dean stretches out his fingers, then balls them tight, does it again. The cramps are slowly fading. He doesn't know what the fuck he did to his hand, but he's sincerely hoping that wherever Sam is Dean won't have to fight anything, because he's still not sure if he sprained it somehow or broke it.

He crosses a street that's still filled with people who are obviously bar hopping and heads up a back road towards where he knows the trail to the Temple begins. He shouldn't be that far. He hopes he's right, because if he doesn't find Sam there he won't know where to begin looking. Not that he knows how he knows Sam's in trouble, or what could possibly have taken him, if something took him at all.

"Timmy fell down the freaking well." He mutters to himself, but he picks up his pace because there's still a vein of panic running through him that's setting off every nerve in his body.

A block or two ahead, in the streets that are silent now because it's late and there are no bars this far out, he hears a noise. He moves up, quickly and quietly as he can, and then sidles up against the wall of a building that has just enough of a corner to keep him unseen. He reaches behind him for his knife and pulls it out, just in case.

The noise comes closer and he hears shuffling footfall, hard breathing, and then a long groan of pain before the obvious sound of someone collapsing to the ground. His back straightens, his heart pounds painfully just once in his chest, and then he's all calm, cool, fury. He tries not to think about the fact that he can identify his brother just by the sounds he makes when he's in pain.

He slinks away from the wall, using the dark night and a street with few lights to his advantage. He can see on the ground, still rolling back and forth from the fall, his brother's flashlight.

"Sammy!" He's shaking with fury and worry.

"Dean?" Sam's voice came from somewhere near the wall just a little way up the street. There was something strange about Sam's voice.

"Jesus, Sammy, are you okay?" He walks up a few feet and now, because it's not so dark that he can't see anything, he can see his brother, curled up on the ground in the corner. He goes to him and kneels beside him. "What the hell happened to you?"

Sam grunts and tries to sit himself up. When he raises his head to look up Dean can see bloody scratches on his face. Dean can also smell alcohol on him, and that might be more disturbing.

"Got jumped." Sam mutters and he leans hard into Dean as they both work to get him to his feet.

It isn't until he has Sam up that he realizes there's actually quite a bit of blood on his little brother.

"Son of a- where are you bleeding from?" He grabs Sam's face, makes his glassy eyes focus on Dean's face. There's blood on his lips, Dean realizes and a scratch above his eye that seems to be surrounding by the beginnings of a bruise. It makes bad memories race through Dean's head. "Sam, look at me." He demands, when his brother's eyes start to droop sleepily. The eyes open again, too wide, like he's trying to stay awake. "How bad did they hurt you? How many of them were there?" He's takes a brief look up and down the road, but he sees no one. He looks back at Sam.

"Five, I think. It's not- it's not as bad as it looks. Got cut on my ribs, think I might need stitches." His hands, which have been hanging uselessly at his sides suddenly move up to grab Dean's face. He's got an odd smile on his face that makes Dean uneasy. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I started that stupid fight with you. I don't care- you can- you can- flirt with everyone I don't care. Just come back to the hotel with me now, okay? Come back with me and fix me up. Ya gotta patch me up, Dean." His face crumples and his hands drop to fist in Dean's shirt.

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, and when he opens them again he doesn't feel any calmer but he can keep his emotion away from Sam. When he tries to take Sam's bag from him, Sam has a near conniption, so Dean lets him keep it. He wraps his brother's arm around his neck and then wraps his own arm around Sam's waist, careful to keep his fingers well low of the blood stain on his shirt.

"What the hell where you thinking, Sam?" He snarls. "Getting drunk and wandering around in the dark in a freaking city you don't know." Only Sam, he thinks, only Sam could kick the ass of just about any demon, spirit, or big nasty out there and then get jumped by a couple of regular people

He's more furious with himself than Sam, but it's easier to chastise Sam for his foolishness than it is to berate himself. If he starts in on himself he's going to have to remember that he's leaving Sam in five months and then he'll never be able to protect Sam again. And he can't think of that because he still can't shake the feeling that something worse has happened.

As they walk, as they reach parts of the city where there is more light, he can see that the cut on Sam's side might be as bad as he thinks, and his face is all bruised and cut up. Whatever other injuries he has; he's holding his hand up against his stomach like it's hurting him, and he's walking stiffly on his left knee, don't seem all that bad. But Dean's jaw is still clenched so tight it's starting to ache, and he's trying to swallow down that familiar feeling of wanting to rip to shreds anything that even thinks about harming his brother.

It's times like this he almost wishes he were like Sam; that he felt the need to talk about everything. He'd like nothing more than to ease some of the tension. But Sam looks downright chastised already, and that on top of the already forming bruises, and the blood on his face, is too much.

He shakes his head and clamps his mouth shut, because the only sounds coming from Sam are vague whispers of apologies and he doesn't want Sam to be sorry, he just wants him safe.

……...

Sam lets Dean clean every wound he can find. He almost feels guilty for the drunken act. But honestly between the cuts and bruises, the ache in his left knee that makes him think he might have popped the kneecap out of place, the burning fire of the cut along his ribs, the mental trauma of the night, and the small amount of Ari's very strong liquor he is feeling a little punch drunk.

He really wants to sleep, especially now that he's with Dean; like his body knows he's safe even with his mind drifting in and out, but Dean won't let him just yet.

It's fine with him though. He's more than content to lie naked on the bed in the hotel room with Dean kneeling next to him on the bed and combing with gentle fingers over every surface of Sam's body. His brother is shirtless and barefoot but still in his jeans and there's something about that that just makes Sam want to kiss him until he forgets his name. His face is so intense, so focused. Sam can't stop staring at him.

Dean's hand ghosts over the new set of stitches over his ribs and a look of intense worry passes over his features. His eyes are so shadowed. Sam reaches out and grabs the hand. Dean startles and raises his eyes to look at Sam.

"I didn't mean to start the fight. I was being an ass. You were talking about the deal earlier, and I think it just put me on edge." He tugs on Dean's hand until Dean comes to lie down beside him. Sam turns carefully, ignoring Dean's muttered curses, and gets his himself curled up against his brother. His head on Dean's chest, one arm flung across his chest, bandaged hand almost cupping his shoulder. Dean is all warmth and comfort to Sam.

Dean is silent, but his hand runs slowly through Sam's hair. It's enough to start lulling Sam into sleep. His eyes are closed, his breathing coming easier and slower. And then Dean's voice, low and rough, cuts through to him though it never fully wakes him.

"You do something stupid like that again; run off on me, get drunk, get yourself caught out there like you did, I'm gonna whoop you myself, you hear? Scared the hell out of me, Sammy." Sam is too tired to open his mouth and reply, he makes a vague grunting moan instead.

He feels Dean's lips press against his temple, and smiles.

He's bone weary, tired down to his soul, and the things he saw and heard beneath the ruined Temple, in the labyrinth, sometimes flash behind his eyelids, or rumble in his ears. But mostly all he feels in the steady warmth of his brother; of his heart beat, his breath, his body wrapped around Sam's as if it can guard him from the world.

For tonight, Sam's content to let that feeling drag him down into restful sleep.

But tomorrow, tomorrow he'll have to see how soon he can book a flight to Ireland without it looking odd to his brother.

Two down, one to go, is Sam's last conscious thought. He falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

……………………………………………………………………………………….


	4. The Boy King

-1**Title: **Orpheus Drowning  
**Rating: **NC-17  
**Characters: **Dean/Sam (Wincest)  
**Summary: **Sam has to come to grips with the deal Dean made. Dean has to deal with a broken Sam. Sam has a plan. (Spoilers for Seasons 1 & 2)  
**Disclaimer: **So not mine, if they were I would have better things to do then write about them.

**Author's Notes: **This story is what came of my fiftieth viewing of the second season finale. Most of the mythological stuff in this chapter and the chapters to come are a culmination of myths and fables, turned into something unrecognizable and made to suit my purposes.

**Author's Notes II: **This is turning into Dean's chapter, sort of. Which is cool, cause before this they've been pretty Sam-centric, I think. Anyway, hope it works and I hope everyone likes. I beg for comments please! They are milk and cookies for my writer's soul!  
……………………………………………………………………………………...

When Sam had been born, Dean was the second person to hold him. Right after his mother, before his father, she'd placed Sam in Dean's arms. And Dean had looked down at that little face, and those big eyes had looked up at him. Dean had been young, but he knew babies couldn't really see, that there was no way his baby brother could look at him and know him. But there was something about Sam's eyes, something that had told Dean even then that Sam would always be able to see him, all of him, even the parts he might want to hide. There was something else in the hazy gaze of his little brother too, something that told Dean all he ever needed to know; he had to take care of Sam. If it was the only thing he ever did in his life, it would be the most important. It was a heavy thing for a young boy to know.

Dean tries not to think about the night their mother died, but it's impossible. He'd been so scared, but Sammy had been in his arms, and so he hadn't cried or panicked. He'd just taken his brother and gone, like he was told. Because Sammy was his, and he'd known that always, and he had to take care of him. Afterwards, while the fire was still being fought, but there was a calm that had descended over the place, Dean had looked down at Sam in his arms and his brother had stared back up at him. And Dean knew that Sam knew it too; that Sam was Dean's and that Dean would always protect him.

When Sam was three or four, Dean can't remember exactly, he began having nightmares. He was too young to make sense of them, to even coherently tell Dean or John about them. He'd just wake up screaming, not for their mother or their father, but for his big brother. And Dean would go to him, wherever he was, whether it was in the bed right next to his, or in the room down the hall, it didn't matter.

He'd lie down with Sam, or bring Sam into his bed, and Sam would snuggle up against him, always warm and soft. When their father would bring it up in the morning Dean would shrug it off. Sammy wasn't dependent, he would tell his father, he was just young and Dean would teach him to take care of himself once he was older. Dean never explained that sometimes he woke, silently, to nightmares of his own. He never let either of them know that sometimes the look of love and hero-worship on Sam's face, the look that said that Sam knew Dean would and could fix everything for him, was what kept him strong.

And when Sam had left for college, Dean had known that he was still taking care of Sam; the only way he knew how by then, by letting him go. And when he'd dragged Sam out of that life, cost him Jessica and the future he'd always wanted, he had promised himself that he would do even better now. He'd make sure his brother never felt alone, never felt like he was somehow not a part of Dean and their father. He would make sure Sam had moments of normal. And if he had to let him go again, he would.

Dean had thought, if he could even claim it as thinking at all, just before he made the deal that he was keeping that promise. That he was making sure he did exactly what he had been born to do; protect his brother.

………..

It's cold in Ireland, and even though their little room in the little pub is heated by an old, wood burning stove, there's still a draft that comes in through the window. Watching Sam sleep, the tension gone from his features for just a little while, Dean knows he's failed to keep that promise. When the time came he had found he couldn't let Sam go. He just couldn't. A world, his world, without Sam alive in it didn't make a damned bit of sense.

Dean is sitting up in the bed, blankets pooled around his hips, barely covering his naked body. Beside him, curled on his side, facing Dean, and taking up much less room than one might expect given the size of him, is Sam. The fire in the stove is slowly dying, but it still spills orange-gold light into the room and across the bed. It makes Sam's body an endless landscape of shadows and lights and angles. Dean stares so long, so hard, that his eyes tear up. He rubs at them with one hand.

When he lowers his hand Dean's eyes fall on the stitches over Sam's ribs, and he reaches his hand out to rest it lightly over them. The stitches are just another reprimand in Dean's head, physical evidence that wanting to protect his brother isn't enough. In his sleep Sam lets out a small, breathless sound, his face scrunching up for a moment before it smoothes out again. In the light it's almost possible to ignore the angry purple-yellow of the bruise above his eye, or to look past the small and slowly healing cut in the middle of it. Sam moves slightly, inching closer to Dean, one hand coming up to reach for something, Dean isn't sure what. He finally hits Dean's hip and his hand curls there, stilling.

Sam mutters something in his sleep, hand tightening on Dean's hip until Dean can feel his even, rounded nails cutting into his skin. His brow is furrowed and Dean can see the sparkle of tears just behind his lashes. His eyes close tight, as if he's trying to block something.

"Dean…" He mumbles softly. Dean moves his hand to rub Sam's back. Soft, barely-there touches that ease the tension out of his brother's body. He whispers to him, nonsense words that make Sam's face soften, his grip on Dean's hip lighten.

Sam still has nightmares. Most nights, like tonight, Dean soothes him out of them without ever waking Sam. Sometimes Sam wakes sweating, and breathing hard, and incoherent; calling for Dean, hands reaching blindly. Not even after Jessica were his nightmares this bad. The only thing that comes close in Dean's memory is the nightmares he had when they were kids.

Dean's not usually one for late night introspection, and even though he's rarely seen him do it Dean has always assumed this was the kind of thing Sam did. But he has a little more than four months left now, so he's more forgiving of that part of himself he usually ignores; the part of him that loves his brother more than he should, that feels fear in the very marrow of his bones, the part of him that's terrified of what will come of Sam once he's gone.

Looking back he realizes he hadn't exactly thought through how Sam would react. Of course, he hadn't planned on ever telling Sam. He thought he'd just go out on a hunt when his year was up, die fighting something evil, because there was no way he was waiting for the hell hounds. And Sam would be none the wiser. And he'd known it would hurt, that Sam would grieve. But then Sam could go back; to the friends he'd left behind, to his books and his classes, to the life he'd been building. There wouldn't be anyone or anything compelling him to fight because Dean and John would be gone and Dean had no intention of dying before he took that Yellow Eyed bastard out.

But things hadn't gone that way. Dean had killed the Yellow Eyed demon that night in the cowboy cemetery with the unexpected, un-looked for, help of his dead father. And Sam had figured out that Dean had made the deal. And hundreds of demons had escaped from hell, leaving Sam and if he was being honest, even Dean, feeling responsible.

And then this had happened. He looks down at Sam, who has his arm worked all the way around Dean's waist now; his forehead resting beside Dean's bent knee, his hair wild across the bed, lips slightly parted in sleep. He lets his fingers wander to tangle in the silky softness of Sam's hair. He wonders sometimes, if he weren't dying, if he would have allowed himself to start this. It probably isn't healthy; or moral, or legal for the matter, though he worries less about those last two because if there's a Winchester that doesn't skirt around those two issues he hasn't met him yet. Maybe their mother, but he can't remember that. He knows this isn't going to make his dying any easier on Sam. Truth is, it will probably make it a whole hell of a lot worse. But he's too broken, too damaged, and damned, and lost, to not take this. He needs Sam more than he can admit even to himself; but the deal he's made speaks the words his tongue can't, and maybe never will be able to.

Dean wishes there were a way out, but he knows there is none. And he knows too well the consequences of trying to find one; he can't ever get the image of Sam in his arms, dead and cold and too-still, out of his head. So he's taking all he can; every chick flick moment, and every fight, every kiss and touch and every slide of skin on skin. They can put him in hell, and he's not sure what that will entail, but he'll never let them take this from him. This year, these moments, quiet and restful in ways his life has never, ever been, are his. 

He moves carefully, Sam can be so damned easy to wake and he doesn't sleep as much as he pretends he does. Dean's not stupid, and he's not blind, he sees how pale his brother is and how deep and dark the circles under his eyes are becoming. He stretches out next to Sam, feels the sweet release of tense muscles. Sam's arm moves up to lay across Dean's chest and he moves his head, burrows it into the side of Dean's chest now and his breath is soft and warm against Dean's skin.

"I love you, Sammy." He whispers, words he doesn't say often while their awake. He lets his fingers find their way back into his little brother's hair. "And I'm damned sorry."

He closes his eyes, having had more than enough of late night musings. If he isn't going to be up all night hunting things then he's sure as hell going to take advantage and sleep. But sleep is a long time coming.

………

Most of the time Sam dreams of Dean in hell. Sometimes it looks like the ancient stadium in the heart of the labyrinth. Other times Sam watches Dean as he watches Sam and their father and their mother die, over and over again. Sometimes he is Dean, and the fire is white hot and the pain so great that he doesn't understand how he can still have any awareness at all.

Tonight though he dreams of the sword. The same sword he and Dean had found earlier in the day and purchased; the money wired from Bobby under the pretense that they were doing a favor for a friend of his. The grandson of the woman who had owned it, and who clearly didn't know what the sword really was, or what it could have been worth, had been more than happy to get rid of it. It had seemed harmless when Sam had carried it back to their room, even though he at least had known what it was, what it supposedly could do.

Now though, in this dreamscape, he can feel the power in it when he holds it. He's on a cliff, overlooking the ocean, and he thinks he might be standing at the end of the world. There's nothing but ocean and this cliff. He can feel blue paint drying on his skin, being wet again by the ocean spray, and slowly drying all over again; a significant cycle. If he looks down he knows he'll see his own naked form covered in painted runes. There is a meaning to them, so he's already memorized them. There are leaves and mud caked into his hair, which is so long he doesn't need to reach up to touch it.

Part of him is separate from this man who stands on the edge of the world. He's aware of himself as he really is, even partially aware that he is in a bed somewhere, his brother looking out for him as he sleeps. His hand aches softly and he knows that Dean is awake.

But it's hard to separate that part of himself from the part that holds the sword. And then, in the space of thought, there is no separation.

Sam turns from the cliff to face the army of demons behind him. There are too many, he knows, they are an ocean unto themselves. The mass of them roils and surges, but never quite dares to move on him. There is a stone table between Sam and them, and Sam knows what it is. It's meaning beats in his blood; sacrifice. And he doesn't need to move closer, so that the shafts of moonlight that peak through dark clouds can show him the face of the person on it. He'd know his brother if he were blind, deaf, and bound.

He snarls wordlessly, feels his lip curl away from his teeth. Rage; wordless, fathomless, endless rage, fills him. It rips like fire through his blood, scorches his veins.

It takes a long moment for him to realize it's not his own, not entirely. There's a buzzing in his head and as soon as he becomes aware of it he can hear it clearly.

_Kill them, kill them all. Feast on the flesh of our enemies. Glory in our revenge. Kill them. Kill them all._The voice is thick and deep. It reverberates through his skull, and he feels his hand tighten on the sword. The rage is clean and unclouded. Even though it's not his he can still steady himself within it. 

_Wipe them away. Destroy them all, every one of them. They call you their Boy King, but you could have been our King once, had we need of one. _

_Evil is evil. Kill them. Avenge us, those of us who came before. Evil is evil. They've been touched by it. Kill them. End this._

But Sam, looking past Dean and the table, and into the masses of demons and spirits and other dark things, can see the faces of people he and Dean have saved, or tried to save. Not evil people. Just people put into bad situations, fallen on bad circumstances. Lenore, who had not attacked humans, and Meg who had been possessed for so long. He stares into the army of evil before him and the rage is beaten back a little. The sword weighs heavier in his hand.

_Kill them!_

An angry snarl and finally he figures out where it's coming from. He stares down at his hand, at the sword he grips tightly. When he looks up again he can see, standing front and center in the army before him, his father. His eyes are yellow, but Sam can see past that, can see John Winchester staring back at him.

"No." He grinds out. The sword seems to weigh twice as much as it did. "It's not just black and white!" The muscles in his forearm fight against the weight. He can't drop the sword, he knows. "And I won't do this."

The rage wells up and crests over him, breaking like a wave. It's directed at him this time, but he stands and takes the brunt of it. His arm shakes with the effort of holding up a blade that weighs more than he knows he can lift.

_We said he was their King. Would you have us follow a boy with demon blood in his veins? A different voice then, high and shrill and more demanding than the others._

"I'm not a demon!" He shouts. He can hear low chuckling. It sends shivers down his spine.

_Prove it then, kill them. Kill the evil._

…….

Dean wakes up because Sam is muttering in his sleep, his hand clawing at Dean's stomach as if he's trying to keep hold of something. It almost hurts. It's more than enough to wake him up.

"Sammy?" He mumbles sleepily. He opens gritty eyes and looks at the clock, realizes it's only been an hour since he fell asleep.

He sits up halfway, and Sam's arm drops down around his hips. There's hardly any light to see by but when he looks down at Sam's face he can see that it's set in a look of angry defiance. Dean wonders what he's dreaming of, reaches down to run a hand over Sam's cheek. Sam lets out what nearly sounds like a snarl. His whole body jerks. And then he's thrashing, long arms flailing, legs kicking at the blankets wrapped around them both. Dean leans over and puts his hands on Sam's shoulders, holding him down.

"It's okay, I got you." The struggling stops almost immediately at the sound of his voice. 

"… not a demon… not… 'm not evil." Sam mumbles, voice shaking and even though he's speaking so low that it's barely more than a whisper Dean can hear the desperation in it.

"Course you aren't, Sam. You're fine. Wake up now, Sammy."

He shakes his brother lightly, but Sam just groans and starts to fight against him again. Dean manages to get a better grip on Sam and pulls his little brother tight against him. Sam's breath breaks in a sob against his collar bone and he's still again in Dean's arms.

"Dean." Sam murmurs. 

"Right here, man. I'm right here."

Dean tightens his grip and waits it out. If the nightmare doesn't stop in a minute or two he'll wake Sam up the hard way. But usually this works, just holding Sam, breathing deep until Sam starts to follow his rhythm and falls back into restful slumber.

He tries not to worry about the feverish feel of Sam's skin against his, or the frantic flutter of his pulse under Dean's hand as it rests around his neck.

…………………

The voices are a cacophony of rage and anger, demands and threats. The sword is so heavy, too heavy, and he can't fight both the noise in his head and the tiring of his muscles. A whisper of voice, a breeze of calm and shelter and something that makes him think the word home so strongly it shakes him to the bones, blows past his ears. He can almost grasp it, almost take shelter in it like he so desperately wants to. The voices are all so loud, but he reaches for it anyway.

"I won't kill innocent people." He screams, over the hot rush of blood in his ears, the roar of his own conviction.

The army is surging forward, unerringly towards the stone table, towards their sacrifice.

_If you don't kill them, they will kill him. Are they so innocent now? _The voice is smug, and sure.

On the table Dean screams, loud and deep, but Sam stands as he is. It's a dream, he knows, he's regained that much of himself. And he knows it's more than just that; it's a test. And he can't let himself be what the sword is demanding he become. Those too weak to carry the sword are devoured by it. And he won't let that be him. So he stands on the cliff side, and he watches as his brother is torn limb from limb. And god it hurts, and every muscle in his body screams for him to go and save Dean. But he knows, in his heart and his soul and his very bones, that the only way to save Dean to stay his own hand. The rage still beats against his chest, but it's nothing compared to the ache of helplessness, the absolute wrongness, of not doing anything.

He doesn't know how long he stands like that. Dean's screams stop and there's more blood than Sam can deal with on the stone table. There are hot tears down his cheeks and he's shaking. The world sways, he fights to stay upright. But eventually the rage subsides. The sword is heavy still, but he can lift it easily. He tears his eyes away from where Dean was and looks down at the sword.

_Fine. We will abide by your say._

We will not move your hand against your will.

What you have seen we will not allow to come to pass.

We will follow you where you intend to take us, and we will break the chains that bind. We are that powerful. And we know what you are, beyond the demon blood that fed you.

There are even more subtleties to the voices than he picked up before and he wonders how many before him have been devoured by the sword. If the myths behind it can be believed, and he believes it after all he's seen especially since coming here, than it's no less than ten, no more than thirty five. There are stories, buried in old myths, that tell of all of them.  
_  
Their will outnumbers ours, Boy King. They will abide you, they will listen and give their wills to you. We will tolerate you. We will not fight you. But do not look for our aid._

The demon army is moving away now, slowly pushed back by some invisible force. They hiss and growl and there are threats in languages Sam understands, and several in languages he doesn't.

He looks down at the sword in his hand and with all his strength he stabs it downward into the earth.

……….

Dean feels Sam's body relax against his. The fight is gone from his features. His breath is steady and deep and the shaking is slowly subsiding.

His body, tucked in against Dean's, still feels too warm and damp with sweat. His heartbeat is calm again underneath Dean's fingertips where they rest against the pulse point on Sam's neck though, so Dean's not worried. Or at least he tells himself he isn't.

He hates that Sam has nightmares, that there are things unseen that he can't defend Sam from. Well, that's not quite correct because there all kinds of unseen things that Dean can only sort of protect Sam from, but he knows there's no way he can protect Sam from himself, not the way he wants to.

The best Dean can do is this; hold Sam, talk to him, give him gentleness and warmth and a tenderness he rarely lets Sam see when they are both awake.

When he's finally convinced that Sam is sleeping peacefully again Dean allows himself to relax into the bed, pulling the covers higher over them both.

It doesn't take long before Dean is fast asleep as well.

………

When Sam wakes he comes awake slowly. Dean is sleeping solidly beside him, arm around Sam's shoulders and Sam's head rises and falls with the steady beat of Dean's breath. He takes a deep breath, tasting relief. He knows it was a dream, but he doesn't care. He's seen too much of Dean broken and beaten recently; whether it's dreams or visions, or not, he doesn't care. He tightens his grip on Dean, hears his brother grunt softly in the half light of almost dawn.

He can feel the pulse of something in his chest, a sense of direction and purpose. He knows if he picks up the sword that's wrapped carefully in the closet near the door that it will fit his hand perfectly, be balanced and nearly weightless in his hand. Sam's almost getting used to the sensation of knowing things he shouldn't possibly be able to know. He lifts his head and looks at his brother's sleeping face.

"Go back to sleep, jackass." Dean mumbles, but his hand rubs soothingly at Sam's neck.

Sam lets his head fall back down onto Dean's chest. The air in the room is chilled but Dean's skin is always warm. He closes his eyes tight, moves in closer to Dean and burrows further under the covers. Normally he sleeps sprawled out, taking up as much room as possible because no bed is ever big enough. But he makes the most of his nights spent with Dean, sleeping as close as he can be without actually being inside of his brother. Dean picks on him and calls him a girl and a bitch, and he complains about chick flick moments, but Sam notices that he never pulls away or demands his own space.

It's exhausting, this state of nervous waiting. The only time he's not vividly aware of the passage of time is when they're fucking, making love, having sex, whatever. When Dean's hands, his mouth, his cock are on him, in him, all over him, it's the only time he can forget the ticking down of time.

"I swear to god, Sammy, I can hear you thinking from here. Go to sleep or give me a blow job, but it's too damned early for the floppy haired, emo boy bit." Dean grumbles, turning on his side, his arms pulling Sam tighter against him so that Sam can feel his morning hard-on pressed into his hip.

Then Dean's hands are roaming, moving over Sam's sleep chilled skin and causing shivers to run riot up his spine. He wasn't hard, but he is now. Dean is nuzzling at his neck; sharp, even teeth nipping, hot tongue licking until Sam lifts his jaw and Dean can attack him properly. Sam can't help the moan that's drawn slowly from his throat. Dean had learned all of his spots so quickly that sometimes Sam hadn't even known it was a spot until Dean touched it.

"You know the best part about this?" Dean is muttering against his skin, his lips finding a particularly sensitive spot just under his collar bone. Sam grunts a response, his hands moving up Dean's back. "It's like sex on demand. We should have done this years ago. Wouldn't have had to work so hard for ass." He can feel Dean's wide smile, and he can hear it in his voice.

Sam shoves him hard and climbs out of the bed as Dean falls back onto it, laughing. The floor is so cold it makes his bare feet sore. Sam doesn't get far before Dean's up and behind him, arms wrapped tightly around him, forehead pressed into Sam's back. He's like a furnace and Sam relaxes back into him.

"Come back to bed, Sammy." Dean says lightly, but his hands tighten convulsively on Sam.

"I'm not easy." Sam tells him, and tries to ignore the pout he can't quite keep out of his tone. Dean chuckles softly.

"Course you aren't. Just can't resist my charm, that's all." Dean turns Sam around in his arms and smiles up at him. The inches between them seem like a lot more than that when Dean's got his head ducked and he's giving Sam heated looks from beneath thick lashes and sleep mussed hair. "It's okay, Sam. You can admit it. You can't get enough of me." Dean still looks slightly sleep-crazed, eyelids at half mast, hair plastered up on one side of his head and sticking out from the other. But Sam's got almost as big a thing for Dean still half asleep as he does for Dean bare foot.

"Dude, shut up." He puts his hands on Dean's shoulders and starts pushing him back. Dean's eyes darken and his tongue licks at his lower lip. Sam leans down and kisses him hard, his tongue following Dean's to taste him, and morning breath be damned, Sam's completely addicted.

Dean's right, Sam can't get enough. He's pretty sure that even if his plan works and he doesn't lose Dean in four months, he's still never going to be able to get enough. It's fucked and he knows it, but he doesn't care. He wanted a normal life once, but now all he wants is the fucked up life they've made; his brother and the car and the road and the hunt.

There are a million other things he should be doing with his time right now; making sure they're set to get the sword through customs, researching the runes from his dream, letting Bobby know they'll be on their way home soon. But Dean's hands are rough and fit his hips perfectly. And when he shoves Dean down onto the bed and crawls over his lap there's still that stupid, self satisfied smirk playing on his full lips and his hair is still sticking up all over the place.

Sam takes advantage, always, of these moments, because he can't know how many he'll have left. His stitches pull and his bruises ache, but he doesn't care. And since Dean seems to have forgotten the booty embargo he put in place until Sam's injuries were more healed, Sam's going to go along with this.

He leans over and sets to the task of kissing the smirk off his brother's lips.

He ignores the pit in his stomach, doesn't want to think about the four months of waiting he has left. It's too conflicting; wanting it over so he'll know if his plan will work, wanting it to last forever because he's terrified it won't.

Sam ignores it, but that doesn't make it go away.

……

Dean still hates airports. He will always, or at least for the next four months, hate airports. He's waiting in line at security and he wonders now if this is what his hell will be; endless airports and airplanes and flights that crash. He shrugs his shoulders, trying to shake the sudden cold feeling that creeps up his spine.

He's almost sorry to be leaving Europe, but his blood is burning for a fight or a hunt. He'd almost been hoping that finding that sword for Bobby would be a bigger deal. But it just turned out to be a bargaining issue more than anything. He wants to get back to his baby, and back to killing evil sons of bitches.

More importantly he can tell that even Sam is. He's been restless for the last week, jumpy and horny enough to rival Dean. Dean figures that once upon a time Sam must have been good at this normal life stuff. Back when Jess was alive, and his brother wasn't going to hell, and he wasn't some would-be King for a whole hell of a lot of loosed demons. But he's bad at it now. He gets jittery just like Dean does.

"Excuse me, sorry. Sorry. Excuse me." A familiar voice comes from down the line of people.

Dean turns to see Sam, shoulders slumped, arms tucked in, trying to make himself as small as possible while he shoulders through the crowds of people. Dean grins widely. Ever since puberty hit him hard Sam's been trying to hide himself.

"Hey, do you mind?" A young girl, who Sam really did try hard to avoid knocking into, is glaring up at his brother, hand on hip. Sam drops an easy smile and her glare softens slightly.

"Sorry, really sorry. I'm just trying to get to my-." Sam stutters over whatever word he was going to use and looks up towards Dean, his smile widening when he catches sight of him. Dean's only vaguely aware of the girl looking back and forth between them.

Dean figures Sam must have worked out whatever problem he was having with customs about that stupid sword that they'd gotten for Bobby, or he wouldn't be smiling so easy. He'd have that frown on, and the sad puppy eyes, and that damned pout that always made Dean want to do ridiculously dirty things to him. Something of that thought must translate on his face, because Sam's smile is suddenly gone and there's a flush in his cheeks and Dean can see him swallow from here.

"-boyfriend?" The girl supplies, though she's definitely looking disappointed. And Sam; intelligent, college boy, human encyclopedia of bad shit Sam, can be so god damned flaky sometimes. Dean watches in what would be horror if it wasn't so funny as Sam turns back to the girl.

"My brother." Looking confused and sounding as if he's explaining something that should be obvious. The girl looks so dumb struck, so completely shell shocked that Dean has to look away, putting a hand over his mouth to smother his laughter.

It's several moments before Sam manages to get back to where Dean is and by then Dean is starting to shove all of his carry on stuff into the stupid plastic bins to go through the X-ray machine. Sam is breathing hard and when Dean looks over his shoulder at him he's red in the face and won't meet Dean's eye. Dean chuckles low in his throat and then steps forward to go through the metal detectors.

Once he has his stuff back, his bag thrown over his shoulder, and his jacket back on he looks over at Sam, walking beside him with his own bag.

"Boyfriend?" One word and it's all it takes for Sam's face to go scarlet again. Dean manages to hide his grin. Sam glares.

"Just- just shut up, dude." He growls out, but Dean can see the small smile playing on his full lips.

"I'm just saying- I mean, boyfriend's pretty serious. I don't think you've even taken me to dinner." He gives Sam a slight pout and raises his eyebrows. Sam frowns at him. "Something romantic. This whole time, in Europe, and not one dinner? I always took you for the candlelit dinner, rose petals on the floor type. It's really disappointing to find out-." He doesn't get to finish because Sam grabs his elbow and spins him around.

He only has time to see how dark Sam's eyes are, the kind of dark that makes him hard in the time it takes Sam to blink, and then he's being crushed against his brother, mouth ravaged by Sam's. Sam's hands are hard on him, fingers pressing almost painfully into the taught muscles of his arm. Dean can taste desperation on his lips, and possibly the salt of tears. He pulls his head back, trying to see Sam's face, but Sam's lips chase his and capture them again. Sam's hands leave his arms only to grab at his hips, pulling Dean between Sam's long legs so that Dean can feel how hard Sam is. He groans, louder than he means to, but Jesus, he can only take so much. He lets his hands twist in Sam's hair and pulls a little, tilting the angle of Sam's head so that when Dean pulls his lips away this time he can bite hard at the soft skin right where Sam's jaw meets his ear. Sam's hips buck hard and Dean grins widely before biting again, softer this time and pushing back against Sam.

There's a discreet cough just behind them and Sam's head jerks up so fast he practically takes Dean out. Dean doesn't move from his place between his brother's legs, doesn't even let go of Sam's hair. He just turns his head to look over his shoulder at the female security guard standing a few feet behind them with her arms crossed over her chest. He grins.

"If you boys could keep moving, please." She says with a polite smile that tells Dean she finds this somewhat amusing but she'll still beat him bloody with her stick, night stick, whatever the hell they call it, if they don't get moving soon.

He reluctantly moves away from Sam, not bothering to hide the fact that he's hard as a rock. He reaches down to adjust himself quickly, giving her a lazy smile, and letting his eyes roam over her. Her expression doesn't change, but there's a faint blush creeping up her neck.

"So when are you off? Maybe we could-." He doesn't even get as far as he thought he would.

Sam's hand grabs the back of his neck and he's being shoved forward, towards the gate they were aiming for, and away from the hot security guard.

"Sorry about that, we're going." Sam explains. And Dean knows exactly what expression he has on his face.

He knows Sam's not really annoyed because Sam keeps his hand on the back on Dean's neck, long fingers softly squeezing the tense muscles there. He always knew once he let Sam start the smug little bastard would never be able to keep his hands to himself.

Dean flops down into a chair in the waiting area near their gate, and watches as Sam folds himself down into the one next to him. Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye. Sam's face is grim again, he's obviously got his brain going. Dean stretches his legs out in front of him, slumps down in the chair until his head rests on the back of it.

"You know, this whole jealousy thing you've got going… it's kind of hot. But you're cramping my style, man. I mean, I've only got four months. And if you think I'm just gonna settle down with your worn out ass-." Sam's a fan of interrupting him today, and he's being fairly efficient about it. He throws his coat into Dean's lap, lets his hand rest under it as his fingers dig almost painfully into Dean's cock.

Dean looks over at Sam, eyes wide. He's a little amazed that Sam's being this way in public. But Sam leans across the arm of the chair to kiss Dean at the same time that he changes his grip under the coat and palms Dean through his jeans instead.

"Jesus, Sammy." He mutters as Sam finally lets his mouth go. Sam smiles, still so close that Dean can't see anything but him.

"My ass is young and firm, you're the one heading up on thirty, dude."

Dean laughs, long and loud, is still laughing even after Sam gets his hand out from under the coat. Dean misses the contact and the warmth, but he knows he'll be able to coerce Sam into the bathroom on the plane.

Dean still hates flying, but he doesn't mind it so much when he's cramped in the small bathroom, and Sam is scrunched in with him, legs spread, head thrown back, hands clawing at the small mirror for some kind of purchase. Dean shakes his head at himself. Maybe he was destined for hell even before he met the deal. He's pretty sure he's not supposed to think about his baby brother like this.

"Time to board, man." Sam says suddenly. He stands easily and throws his bag over his shoulder.

Dean feels the familiar twist in his gut. He really, really hates flying.

"The Impala's waiting." Sam says.

Dean looks at him, really looks at him. He's standing taller and straighter than he was. There are dark circles under his eyes still, but they're a lot lighter than they were. All the bruises from what happened in Delphi are gone. This trip was a good idea. They both needed it.

But he's beyond ready to get back into the fray, go out fighting. Only four months left and he swears he can hear the howling of the hell hounds. He doesn't tell Sammy. He'll never tell him. Doesn't want Sam to know that he can feel the passing of every day, sometimes every hour or minute.

"Dude, if the Impala can't entice you onto the plane, I don't know what will." Sam's voice cuts through his thoughts. Dean smirks.

"How about hot stewardesses?" 

Dean laughs when Sam grabs his hips and pulls him in close. He really does like it when Sam gets possessive and jealous. 

"Plane. Now." Sam demands. And Dean shrugs him off and swaggers towards the ramp, knows Sam is following just behind.

One more plane. One more plane, and then back to war.

………………………………... 

**Authors Note III: **Hope everyone likes this chapter. It took a while with the Holidays and all. Please comment and let me know what you think!


	5. The Day and The Day After

-1**Title: **Orpheus Drowning  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Characters:** Dean/Sam (Wincest)  
**Summary:** Sam has to come to grips with the deal Dean made. Dean has to deal with a broken Sam. Sam has a plan, and so does Dean.  
**Disclaimer:** So not mine, if they were I would have better things to do then write about them.

**Author's Notes: **This story is what came of my fiftieth viewing of the second season finale.

**Author's Notes II: **In some ways, this chapter was really rough. I'll say that the last couple of 'parts' I wrote to the lovely sound of "I will love you" by Fisher. And it was hard to write for some reason. You can find it on y o u t u b e if you want to listen to it.

………………………………...

One month left.

Dean's cold all the time now. He's not hungry as often as he used to be, doesn't eat as much. He doesn't sleep as much, but he partially blames that on Sam not sleeping much either. He feels- weaker, more faded. He's tired. He didn't expect to be this tired.

The bed he's in is comfortable enough, the mattress is firm and the blankets are warm and it smells clean, which is more than some of the motels they've been in. He was asleep just a few moments ago, but something woke him. His left hand is aching again, just the slightest discomfort, so he stretches the fingers. His hand is caught in two warm hands and the bed dips with the weight of his little brother as he crawls under the covers. 

"You were sleeping." Sam's voice is rough and underused. He doesn't talk as much as he used to, he's gradually becoming more and more silent. Dean hates it, he does things now just to provoke a verbal response out of Sam.

"Woke up." Is the response he gives Sam, and he feels relief as soon as Sam's hands touch his, a spreading warmth from the center of his palm. He yawns widely, suddenly sure that he could sleep easily.

"Sorry. Probably me. I was looking for a lead." Sam shifts on the bed, frees one hand to pull the covers up and over both of them.

Sam is warm and Dean curls against his body, wanting to soak the heat into his own skin. He wishes he wasn't always so cold. It used to be Sam that warmed himself on Dean. He doesn't like this change, doesn't want to look too hard into it. Sam wraps one arm under and around him, lets his too-long legs tangle up with Dean's. His left hand keeps hold of Dean's, cradles it softly over his heart. Dean is overcome with the sensation of contentment, of being genuinely tired in a way that's normal and welcome. He rests his head on Sam's pillow, near his neck. Sam's hair tickles his forehead, but he doesn't care, it's soft and it smells good.

"Find anything?" He murmurs. Sam's head twists around and Dean's lips are caught and tasted, licked at softly. When Sam pulls away, Dean's lips curl into a sleepy smirk.

"Maybe. Tell you in the morning. Sleep now, dude."

And Dean might have argued about being ordered to sleep once, but now he just finds himself doing exactly that. It's a relief to find sleep waiting for him, no fight, just the warm ebb and flow of unconsciousness.

……….

As soon as he grabs Dean's hand the ache in his own subsides. It took a while for him to figure it out but he gets it now. The rings bind them, but more than that, they let them feel each other. As far as Sam can tell he feels it more acutely than Dean does. It might be because he's aware of the rings, or maybe because of the powers he had, he's not sure. But it's more than just an ache in his hand, he knew the moment Dean woke up, and he knew it was because he was transmitting his own fear and worry through the link of the rings. 

Sam can also feel how tired Dean is, how much he's fading, slowly but surely. Sam almost wishes he couldn't. It would be easier, all of this waiting, if he could at least lie to himself; tell himself that Dean's pale skin, and dull eyes, and loss of appetite were just Dean's own concern and worry, and not a sign of something much deeper and even darker.

When Dean asks about the hunt Sam might have found, Sam considers telling him he hasn't found one at all. But even if they don't take this one, Dean will want to find another. Doesn't matter that just yesterday he'd slipped up and nearly gotten himself choked by a spirit while Sam had burned and salted the bones.. Dean can't, doesn't, won't accept that his reflexes aren't what they were. And Sam doesn't have the heart to tell him, to make him really look at himself.

What they had both feared for so long, that Dean would just fade and keep fading until his time was up is their reality now. Or Sam's at least. Dean is wasting away. Sam can see it, god he can feel it. 

His hand tightens a little on Dean's. In his sleep Dean lets out a small sound, almost a groan. The noise spills warm air across Sam's neck, makes him shiver slightly.

He goes over the plan again in his head, same as he does every night, once Dean's asleep. The rings, the lyre, the sword.

Three-fold, the magic divide, everything by threes. Three parts of his plan, three different mythos. It has to work. He has to make it work. He's explained it all to Bobby, well, almost all. He can't explain the rings to Bobby, too many questions there, but he can explain the rest. And so the lyre and the sword rest safely with Bobby until the time comes.

One month left.

Sam's been ticking the days off on a small, palm sized calendar that Dean doesn't know he's bought. Sam needs to keep track of the days, needs to physically see them as they pass, not just feel them; in his gut and his heart, in his soul which feels like it's being smothered a little more each day with the heavy feeling of guilt and fear. It's harder to speak, everyday that passes seems to steal another word from his lips. The words he has left, they feel too small, too much like trying to make something out of nothing. Too much like trying to stop time.

He's trying to hold out, to keep faith that his plan will work. Every day makes it harder, every meal Dean doesn't feel like eating, every hunt that doesn't go the way it should. 

Sam closes his eyes, takes some small comfort in the low pulse of sleepy calm that's coming from his brother. This is the only way Sam can sleep, if he's curled up with Dean. He turns his head on the pillow, watches Dean's sleeping face. In the dark it's hard to see the dark marks under his eyes that show his exhaustion, it's easy not to see how pale he is. He moves his face closer until he's breathing in the same breath as his brother.

"I'm going to save you." He whispers, words he doesn't ever say when Dean's awake. He says them softly. He doesn't want to wake Dean.

Dean frowns in his sleep and curls in closer, lips pressing against Sam's as he does. Sam doesn't pull away, doesn't mind being this close. He closes his eyes, breath coming easier. He can feel sleep now, finally, drawing him in, pulling him down. It's welcome and wanted and he lets himself fall into it, lulled to it by the constant, steady sound of his brother breathing.

……….

Two weeks left.

Sam's driving because Dean tires easily now, and Sam can't remember the last time his brother actually finished a meal or slept through the night. Sam's driving because he knows, without Dean admitting it, where his brother wants to be when this all happens. Back home; to mom's grave and dad's dog-tags, to the closest thing the Winchesters will ever have to a resting place. 

They were in Washington just a day ago, taking out a demon, one of the demons that had crawled out of hell almost year ago. It was messy and dangerous, and Sam still has the wounds down his back to prove it. It's their last job. Sam won't look for anymore and he doesn't care how pissed off Dean gets.

He's taking it slow and easy, no sense in rushing because two weeks is plenty of time to get where he's taking them. Driving in the car, his back always to the leather, is uncomfortable on his wounds anyways.

It's nearly dark now and Dean is dozing, has been dozing, for the last couple of hours. Signs say there is a motel a few miles ahead, but Sam's eyes are bleary by the time he actually reaches it. He leaves Dean sleeping in the car while he checks them in. Dean sleeps so little through the night that Sam leaves him sleeping even while he gets their stuff in the room, and lays the salt lines.

Sam stands a little ways off from the Impala, looking in at his brother in the filtered light of the halogen lights in the parking lot. There's a burning in his eyes, but it's been weeks since he's cried, can't seem to get himself to that kind of release anymore. Instead it's just become a coiled pain in his stomach, in his spine too, he imagines it right where Jake stabbed him. He closes his eyes for a moment, putting a hand over them, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Sam doesn't hear the car door, more surprisingly he doesn't hear Dean's boots crunching in the gravel. The hand on his shoulder startles him, but he knows it's Dean as soon he touches him. The grip is firm and sure, strong fingers digging into the tense muscles in a way that would melt Sam if he weren't so damned scared.

"C'mon, man, we should get some food. You hungry? Cause I'm starving." Dean's standing close enough that Sam can feel the warmth of his breath.

He can almost hear all the words below what Dean is actually saying; _Can't break down now, Sammy, no time for being scared when we've only got a little time left. Man up, gonna have to keep going somehow. I'll miss you, and I'm scared, but for you, for you, I would do this all again. _Sam reaches over with his left hand, grabs Dean's where it rests on his shoulder.

"I'm starving." He tells Dean. It's a lie, he can still feel the last bit of meal he tried to eat resting heavy in his stomach, but it's a lie they both need.

Dean pulls his hand from Sam's and pats him hard on the shoulder. When Sam opens his eyes Dean is already walking towards the Diner just across the street. His stride is what it's always been, wide legged and sure and sometimes damned near a saunter. Sam's been captivated by watching Dean move for almost a year now, doesn't know how he ever ignored it before. Not that he hadn't grown up watching his big brother, but not like this. Even in his current state Dean's vitality, whatever might be left of it, shows in every movement he made.

"Stop staring at my ass, Sammy. Time for that later. I want food now." Dean motions for Sam to follow him, though he never looks back. "Maybe pie." His voice is louder now, as he gets further from Sam. "You think they have good pie?" He calls back.

Sam can't help but grin, has to, because he knows he won't later. If things don't work- he stops the thought before it continues. It's going to work. It has to. He jogs across the street until he's walking beside his brother. He lets his hand brush Dean's, accidentally bounces a hip into Dean's hip. He watches from the corner of his eyes as his brother's lips curl up in a lazy smirk.

He wants to kiss him, but he'll wait. If he starts now they won't eat. And then he'll have to listen to Dean bitch about wanting pie. And while Sam has to admit that along with barefoot-Dean and sleep-crazed-Dean, Dean demanding pie is sexy as hell to him, it can also be annoying if you don't actually have pie to eventually give him.

"-pie, Sammy?" Dean's looking at him now, still walking, still swaggering. He flicks his tongue out to lick his lip and Sam's step stutters.

"What?" He has no idea what Dean has been saying to him.

"I said I want to bring the pie back with us, and eat it off of you. So, what kind of pie, Sammy?" Dean has a wicked glint in his eye. Sam swallows hard.

Cherry pie, he thinks automatically, and he can barely walk now; he's already half hard just with the mental image.

Dean is snickering at him, but Sam doesn't care. For just a few minutes, just for now, it feels like it always has. Just him and Dean and no deal looming over the horizon. And Sam's smart enough to take these moments when they're given.

…………

Dean finishes all of his dinner, and even eats most of his pie. The food is greasy, and there are definitely a couple of moments where he has to fight it back down, but he manages it. He knows Sam better than anyone in the world, knows the look in his face that says he's watching Dean and trying to seem like he isn't.

He fights back a yawn, runs a hand through his hair instead. It feels, brittle somehow, like even his hair is slowly dying. And it probably is. He just hopes it stays on his head for another two weeks. Two weeks. He puts down his fork so that Sam won't see the shiver that runs through him, but he knows Sam sees it anyway.

He's saved by the waitress, although he's pretty sure Sam wasn't going to say anything. Sam speaks even less now than he did two weeks ago, definitely more than he was speaking a month ago, two months. Dean never thought he would miss Sam's constant desire to talk. But he does, misses the way Sam says his name, chides him for not sleeping enough, worries and frets when Dean's not careful enough.

He orders another piece of pie, cherry because he can already imagine the taste of it on Sam's skin, and gives Sam a heated look from across the table. The waitress, who has been flirting with Sam, which tells Dean he must look as great as he's been feeling lately, goes red in the face looking between them.

Sam practically chokes on the sip of coffee he's just taken, and there's a soft flush creeping up his skin. Of all the things Dean might not have much of an appetite for anymore, Sam is not one of them. He's barely able to wait for the pie and the check.

By the time they get across the street to their motel room, before they're even inside, he has Sam's shirt rucked up his chest, exposing the soft, heated skin of his taught stomach to Dean's roaming hands. Sam's struggling with the key, and Dean's not inclined to help, his mouth is too busy sucking round marks on Sam's long neck.

Sam makes a small grunting noise and finally manages to get the door open. Out of habit they both look around to check the salt lines, but none have been disturbed. Sam tosses the keys on the table next to his laptop and then he's tugging Dean's shirt over his head.

They're naked in no time at all and Dean's straddling Sam's lap, pressing back into his little brother's hard cock, partially because he loves the open mouthed pant it brings off of Sam's lips and partially because it feels god damned good. The container with his cherry pie is on the night table beside the bed and he's dipped his finger into the sticky filling and he's spreading it over Sam's chest, painting it vibrant red. Sam's back is arching, his thighs spreading wider so that Dean falls deeper between them. Dean moans himself then, because Sam's right there and perfect and part of him just wants to sit right down on Sammy, preparation and pain be damned. But he has his own fun planned. He leans forward again, tongue licking a flat line up Sam's chest and the pie filling is still warm as it hits his tongue.

No wonder Sam's shaking and twisting beneath him. He's still silent though, no words, just a few moans and some panting and a lot of groans that sound like they're bordering on pained. It's a thrill, every single time, to see Sam fall apart like this. But when Dean let's his sticky, cherry covered fingers trail down to Sam's hips, his body bending to allow his tongue to follow the same path, Dean's thinking he should have thought about having Sam and food at the same time a long time ago. He bites down on Sam's hip and Sam bucks hard against him, would send him backwards off the bed if years of training hadn't given Dean the strength he needs to hold his brother down.

"Dean." Strained and broken and so rough. Dean's head comes up and he's staring down at Sam. Sam's eyes, Jesus, Sam's eyes are an entire universe created only for Dean and he'd spend forever, really forever, learning every part of them if he could.

He leans forward, grinding their hips together, so that he can kiss Sam. And Sam still tastes like the coffee he was drinking except it's mixed with the flavor of sugar and cherries and everything else that is purely Sam and a little bit Dean.

It's sappy and it's girly but Dean knows, as he kisses his brother deeper, that all of his fight, his hunger, his fight, all of it is right here, in Sam. Sam, who was always the keeper of everything Dean ever held dear. And so Dean presses them closer, kisses Sam harder, and takes just enough back to keep going.

Two weeks left, and it doesn't matter, not right now. It doesn't matter because Dean's the only one who can hear the howling of the hellhounds, and those howls are drowned out by the sound of his name on his little brother's lips.

………..

_The _day.

It's_ the_ day. Less than twenty four hours from now and the body he's curled around now will be cold and still and lifeless.

Bobby is on his way, he's got the sword and the lyre and the colt, which has only one use now that it's out of bullets. He'll reach them by tomorrow. The day _after_.

But Sam's not thinking about that now. He's too busy mapping the veins in Dean's skin. Every single one of them, pulsing with life and blood, and he traces them with his tongue, follows the lines of them with his long fingers. Dean's got his hands tangled in his hair, grip still sure and steady. The other hand is gripping the sheets, clenching and unclenching as Sam makes his way over every part of his body. Dean's not usually patient. He's great at taking his time with Sam, bad at letting Sam take his time with him. And Sam knows that it means something; this here, this allowing of Sam to take hours, and yes it's been hours, memorizing and tasting every part of him.

Sam's grateful. Dean's come twice already, that's how grateful he is.

There are candles, candles and the scent of sandalwood and lemongrass and sage all through the room. Dean never even laughed. He'd taken one look at the room, and then he'd turned and kissed Sam.

And hours later here they are, where Sam plans on them being hours from now. He has no intention of letting Dean out of the bed until it's time. And his mind steers clear of those thoughts. No time for mourning now, only time to worship.

Dean's skin, which has been pale and colorless, is painted gold in the light of the candles, flush with blood where Sam touches him. His eyes, burnished green in the dimness, are bright like they haven't been in months. He's beautifully alive, full of breath and heat. Sam has to look away sometimes, because it's all too much; this past year, and all the things he's learned about Dean just from finally being able to touch him after years of never allowing it, and knowing he might lose it, that this could be the last chance. He shakes his head, just a small movement, but Dean's hand tightens in his hair and he pulls Sam forward. Sam sighs into the kiss, then breathes deeply, taking in the air that was Dean's a moment ago.

He pulls back and Dean's hands slide out of his hair, brush down his cheek and neck and rests on his shoulder. Dean's silent, watching him. Sam can't look away. Something is breaking inside of him, and he can't let it break, not yet, not while Dean is watching. So he leans forward, kisses Dean, and his hands find the place on his brother's muscled body that make him arch into Sam and moan into his mouth.

Much later, when he enters Dean, achingly slow, eyes caught on Dean's, it's as simple and as complicated as coming home for the last time. He stays unmoving, buried deep inside his brother.

"Sammy." One word, just his name, whispered from perfect lips that he knows every taste of. And Sam buries his head in Dean's chest and begins to move, slow and steady, feeling every part of this.

Dean's arms wrap around him, his face is hidden in the blanket of Sam's hair. But he's whispering, speaking, words he's never been good at gifting Sam with suddenly given freely.

Sam's crying, he doesn't mean to, but there's no way he can't. Dean's words set their rhythm, keep him moving even when he feels like it might be impossible.

When they come, they come together, and Dean's hot and sweet between them and Sam is stuttered and broken inside him.

"I love you." He finally says, voice found again, when it's been silenced for days, no words to give his brother as time left them both. "I love you so damned much."

And then he's weeping all out, still inside Dean. And he kisses him, because he can't do anything else.

No, there's nothing else that Sam can do.

………

Sam sleeps. When his tears are finally dry and his breathing is evened out, he finally sleeps. And Dean lays with him for a while, for hours or maybe only minutes. Then he leaves the bed, carefully and quietly.

There are a couple of times he almost falls, barely catches himself, and that's only part of how he knows it's almost time. He dresses carefully, in his favorite jeans, worn and comfortable and only mildly stained with things that Dean can't remember. He throws on a t-shirt and contemplates a flannel over shirt. In the end he makes his way back to the bed, to where Sam's hand has stretched out onto his side of the bed. And he drops it there carefully, where Sam will be able to touch it when he wakes.

There's nothing else much to take. He's still got the pendant charm Sam gave him, what seems like a million Christmas's ago, around his neck and he shrugs into the familiar weight of his leather jacket. He lets his fingers brush over the laptop on the table. It's a flash of thought, an image in his mind of Sam smiling, that leads to him sitting down at the computer for just a moment. When he's done he leaves the screen up, smiles to himself and stands again, more unsteady on his feet now than he was even moments ago.

He considers leaving a note, but there are no more words he needs to say to his brother. Sam already knows that Dean loves him more than that single word can encompass. He knows Dean would make the deal all over again no matter how many chances he had to take it back. He knows how to fix the Impala, where Dean's favorite bar in the whole damned country is, knows that Dean doesn't expect him to continue hunting but that he knows he will. There's nothing left to say, so Dean leaves no note.

He's to the door before he lets himself look back at his brother. The candles are still burning, but he's pretty sure Sam's in no danger of setting the room on fire. He's beautiful, Dean's little brother, sleeping and relaxed in the warm light and the clean white of the bed sheets. Dean stares, stares until his eyes burn and water, until breathing becomes difficult.

Then he's out the door, a muttered I love you falling from his lips, even though he knows Sam can't hear him.

It's better this way, he tells himself, if he's alone when it happens. He knows Sam will come for his body, will know exactly where to look, but Dean would rather be gone when Sam gets there. Dean's strong, but Sam's his weakness, and he doesn't think he can stand to watch Sam's face as he dies.

And so Dean leaves, to die alone, the same way his dad did, and for mostly the same reasons. It's a good way to die he thinks, maybe better than going out fighting.

It's almost midnight.

………

Sam finds Dean as he's drawing his last breath. He's running, running so hard, and he collapses hard onto his knees in the wet grass before his mother's headstone. Dean's eyes catch his, and there's a sad half smile playing on his lips. Sam's grabs him, pulls him to him and presses his lips to Dean's.

"Should've known." Dean whispers against Sam's lips. "Bitch." Sam can_ feel_ the effort it takes just for Dean to give him the half smile he manages.

And that smile, those words, are the last because he takes one final breath and then he's- just _gone_. 

Sam stares, just stares, can't seem to move. It's all so- numb. He didn't think it would feel this numb, to stare down at his brother's face; his beautiful, wasted, motionless face, and just not be able to feel, like his own blood has stopped moving.

But then, like a shotgun blast, feeling returns; too quickly, too much, and he's burning up with them, shaking, almost convulsing. There isn't enough blood or bone or muscle in his entire body to contain it all.

He leans back, supported by his mother's headstone, his brother's body coming limply with him, still wrapped in his arms. He buries his face in Dean's neck, hides himself there. It smells like Dean and the only thing that's ever meant home to him.

Time is frozen, and then it's not frozen and _The_ day ends. The early half light of pre-dawn creeps into the sky and Sam can hear birds in the trees around the cemetery. But Sam doesn't move, doesn't care who sees him. This is the day after, and Sam doesn't care about anything at all except the dead weight of his brother in his arms.

Dean is _gone_, and Sam can still breath, still weep, still blink his eyes against a day that's too damned sunny and then hide his face in his brother's neck again. Dean is gone, and Sam is still there. The essential wrongness of it sits heavy in Sam's bones. He feels more _alone _than he's ever, ever felt.

His hand aches, god it aches, but he just clenches Dean harder with it. If it hurts, god if it hurts, then the bond is still there. And he won't allow himself to hope, but he won't wallow in despair either. Not if his hand still aches.

The day is fading when Bobby finds him.

And this then, is the day _after,_ and there's work to do. 

………………………………...

Author's Note III: Eeeeeeh. PLEASE comment! Oh please, I really hope people like this! Only two more chapters to go.


	6. Orpheus Below

-1**Title: **Orpheus Drowning  
**Rating: **NC-17  
**Characters: **Dean/Sam (Wincest)  
**Summary: **Sam has to come to grips with the deal Dean made. Dean has to deal with a broken Sam. Sam has a plan, it's finally being revealed.  
**Disclaimer: **So not mine, if they were I would have better things to do then write about them.  
**Warnings: **Outside of the obvious; being slash, incest, and graphic sex I now include some graphic violence, mentions of, illusions to, and maybe some brief descriptions of rape and torture. It's not as bad as it sounds, I promise. Okay… maybe it is.

**Author's Notes: **This story is what came of my fiftieth viewing of the second season finale.

**Author's Notes: **I'm just going to say that parts of this made me feel ill. Also, I'm back to messing with a whole lot of myths and legends and such. Not in too great detail, but I make it what I need it to be. Hopefully it works. Please comment and let me know what you think.

………………………………...

A cage. A room. A box. A cell.

It doesn't matter what it's called, or what it really is. It's small and dark and so hot it's smothering him. But worse than the inky darkness, than the size and the heat, is the smell. It's rotting flesh, and dead things, and the coppery smell of blood. It fills his nose and throat until he gags harshly, clawing at his throat because he can't breath through it. The walls and the floor, they feel wet and soft, and underneath all that his fingers feel the smoothness of bone. There are the noises too; screams and gasps and cries.

His own voice, hoarse and raw, joins them when the cage is opened. Meg was right when she said it was a prison of blood and bone and fire. But none of that; god, if there is a god in any fiery corner of this place, none of that compares to the things they make him feel and see. He doesn't know enough languages in which to beg. And he does beg. No smart ass remarks here.

The day, the hour or the moment maybe, when they peel his flesh from his bones one small strip at a time seems endless, it's own forever. There is no description he knows for that pain, for the feel of muscle still trying to cling to skin, or the feel of his blood bathing him, all of him. He can still hear the wet, sticky sound of his flesh as it loosens it's hold on him. Somehow, no matter how many times they do it, it always starts again.

They lie to him, whisper in his ear as fire licks his aching body. They say Sam is dead, that Sam came after him like the fool hero his little brother has always thought he was, and died because no one living can enter hell. They tell him that Sam has joined them in an effort to get Dean back. That Sam has sold his own soul. Dean tries to hold onto the knowledge that they have to be lies. But he can see it in his mind, and he's not sure if it's because they put the image there or because they are true. He can see Sam's eyes black and his hands covered in innocent blood, all for Dean.

They use his family against him. He sees his mother burning, just out of his reach, just shy of where he can save her. And she opens her mouth, to say something, to be for help, he's not sure, but she never gets a word out. Blood gurgles out of her throat and past her lips and it drips down onto Dean's face from the top of his cell. And then it's her bones and her rotting flesh, wisps of her pretty blonde hair that make up the top of it.

For a while, though he can't know how long, he holds onto some part of himself. He knows who he is and why he's here. There are things, memories, that no matter how they hurt him or try to break him, they can't seem to take from him. He can remember that first night with Sam, after making the deal, the feeling of his skin against his and the welcome of his mouth. He can recall his father telling him how proud of him he was, just before he went through with his own deal. He can remember the feeling he had when dad had given him the Impala and sent him on his first hunt alone. He can remember the smell of his mother's hair as she kissed him goodnight.

But slowly, over unfathomable time, these memories are worn away; twisted beyond recognition and turned into something else. Something that isn't his. And it does break him, twists him.

He knows his name, even has some vague idea of how things should be. He's Dean Winchester, he came here to save his brother, he was a hunter once. But beyond that, the world, his world, is fuzzy and unrecognizable.

Sam dies in his arms; just a baby, blue in the face and eyes crying blood. His father's grip on his shoulder is painful, holding hard until blood pours from broken skin, and his father smiles at him through yellow eyes. When Sam touches him here, his hands rip away chunks of Dean, and Sam's eyes are black as he licks Dean's blood from his long fingers. Cassie dies strung up in a tree, with a noose around her neck, and Dean's too late to do anything. His mother hangs herself, because Sammy died and he was the baby that she had wanted, and Dean had let him die. They leave him, all three of them, and Dean stays in their haunted childhood home until the spirits pull him apart. Their father catches them together, and he takes Sammy from Dean; _takes_ him, hard and with no preparation until Sam is bleeding and torn and screaming for Dean. But Dean can't save him because his father ordered him to stay where he is and Dean _can't not follow an order_. Bobby dies in a car wreck, and John kills himself the next day. Sam marries Jess and Dean watches from afar because he hasn't spoken to his brother in almost ten years. And Dean goes home that night, drink and self medicates until the dead space in him is filled with something else. Dean burns the house, sets it aflame, starting with Sam's nursery. He watches from the sidewalk as the house place goes down and then a spark sets his own clothes on fire. And Dean watches as his own skin melts away; hearing their voices in his mind.

And when every memory has been obliterated, turned dark and haunted and inside out; then Dean screams always, not just when the door is open. He screams, screams for Sam because it's ingrained so deeply for him to do so, that nothing can silence him. They don't care. They don't mind what he screams as long as he screams.

And they lock him in his cell, his room, his box, his cage. And they leave him. With the heat and the smell and sounds and the feel of rotting flesh and bones beneath his skinless hands.

……..

Sam screams.

He clutches his left hand to his chest and folds himself double over it. The Impala swerves into the other lane and Bobby's hand shoots out to straighten the wheel.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He's demanding, voice still stuttered with sleep.

Sam can't answer him yet, barely manages to slam the breaks on. The Impala comes to a screeching halt and Bobby manages to get it towards the shoulder. Sam sucks in desperate breaths through widened nostrils, tries to get the smell of burning flesh out of his nose, but he can't.

This is the third time it has hit him this hard; when his hand is twisted like it's a broken thing, and he can smell blood and fire.

"Sam! Damn it, boy, what the hell is going on?" Bobby sounds frayed and a little frantic.

Sam opens his eyes, though he can barely see past the blur of pain brought tears. He takes another deep breath and the smell of burning is fading. Bobby has the window wide open and fresh air is blowing in and past him. His hands is aching, but he can flex his fingers again.

Bobby is still staring at him. When he meets his eyes, Bobby's narrow at him.

"Tell me." He demands. Sam nods, still gulping greedily at the fresh air.

"The rings." He manages to get out.

He breaks eyes contact to look back at Dean's body in the backseat, and his heart contracts painfully. He avoids looking at his chest, doesn't want to have to see the lack of movement.

"What about the damned rings-." But Bobby stops. He's not stupid, never has been, and he's always been ace at reading Sam. "Everything we researched about those rings said the two people had to be- well, hell- had to be together, Sam. Sexually. You find something that said otherwise?"

Sam knows Bobby is doing him a kindness, giving them both an out. Sam can lie here, say he found something, that he put the rings on he and Dean anyway and it seems like it worked. Because here Sam is, in the living world, and Dean's six hours in hell, and Sam can still feel his connection to his brother. But Sam's too confused, in too much pain, too raw, to take the chance Bobby's giving him.

"No. Everything says the same as what we found. Soul-mates, lovers, forever and beyond, all of it." He tears his eyes away from Dean, from trying to convince himself that Dean is just sleeping.

He looks back at Bobby who has a slightly horrified expression on his face.

"So you're telling me, you and him-?" Bobby makes an abortive gesture towards Dean's body, eyes wide with disbelief.

Sam lets his eyes drop. He fully expects Bobby to leave him to this, without backup. He thinks that maybe, a year ago, he might have done the same to someone who had admitted to sleeping with his brother. Incest, and he's sure he's never really thought of he and Dean like that, was definitely not in his definition of normal a year ago. But now? Now, he doesn't care what anyone calls it. Dean's _his_, and he's _Dean's_ and he doesn't care what kind of deal Dean made because Sam's getting back the soul that rightfully belongs to _him_.

"Jesus, Sam, are you kidding me? Your _brothers_!" Bobby's not shouting, just sounds confused and not a little angry. "I know you wanted to save his soul, but sleeping with him?"

"It wasn't like that." Sam snaps. And it wasn't. He didn't sleep with Dean just to save his soul. He hadn't known anything about the rings that first night. Hadn't known anything about how badly he wanted his brother either, but that didn't matter.

"You need to tell me what is was like then." Bobby states, no nonsense and for a minute he sounds like dad, which makes Sam shudder. "Now."

"Started a year ago. The night the Devil's Gate opened. Dean admitted- I made him admit what he did. The deal, having one year." He takes a deep breath, keeps his eyes off Bobby and the rearview mirror which will give him a clear view of Dean. It flashes in his mind, the image of Dean, his father, and he all in this car. Night of the crash, and there had been so much blood. Blood, he thinks, is a funny thing. "I couldn't- damn it, when we got back to hotel. It just happened." He shakes his head, he can hear Bobby take in a deep breath.

"So a year? You been fucking your brother for a year? And that's why, all this stuff, you so damned desperate to save him that you probably came close to dropping back dead again yourself?"

Sam has to look up at Bobby then, has to. Bobby is his back up, the guy he turns to when Dean can't help him or when it's Dean he needs to help. He's their pseudo-father, and Sam needs him to still be that. He should have lied, he realizes, but he couldn't. Not with Dean dead, _dead_, in the backseat.

"I would've done all this either way, you know it. He's my brother, I can't let him rot in hell because of me." Sam snarls. It's true. It wouldn't have mattered how that night went, he still would have done everything he could have to save Dean.

"Your brother." Bobby echoes him quietly, then breathes deeply. "Your dad woulda skinned you both. Dean, at least, you know that? It's not- damn it, Sam, it's not right." He sounds exasperated, like he's explaining something as simple as laying salt lines to him. 

"Not Dean's fault, Bobby. It is what it is. Now you going to help me still or not? Cause I need backup and your all I have."

There's a tense moment of silence and he thinks that Bobby's going to open the door and get out of the car. He sighs heavily and reaches for the door latch, lets the door fall open..

"I'm still going to help you, Sam. You need someone there if you're going to pull this off. But damn it all. I'm gonna pretend I don't know about you two, because I can't even begin to get my head around it." Bobby gives him a hard look, but he meets it. No shame. He doesn't care what anyone thinks as long as he can get Dean back. "So tell me about these rings. Tell me what they can do. And I'm driving, before you kill us both."

Sam opens the driver's side. If that's the only demand Bobby is making, he's more than happy to comply.

………

He's fourteen years old and Dad has come home from a hunt. It must have gone bad, cause John is drunk and staggering. He comes into the bedroom the boys are sharing and Dean knows immediately from the way he's eyeing Sammy where this is going. So he does the only thing he can do. He stands up and gets in his father's way. Says something smart that has John backhanding him across the face and dragging him out of the room.

He could fight, maybe even shock his dad with how strong he already is, muscles firm and thick and flexible because Dean's been doing nothing but training since he was six years old. But if he fights it can only end up hurting Sammy. Dad will knock Dean out and just go for Sam like he was going to. And Dean can't let that happen. Sammy is his to protect, even from this, especially from this.

His father throws him onto the bed and he lands on his back, staring at his father as he stands at the side of his bed. Dean looks up to meet his eyes, has to keep challenging him or John will get bored.

But it isn't John Winchester standing over him now.

Sam; his too tall, long limbed, floppy-haired, pretty, doe-eyed little brother, is standing over him. He's starting to kneel, a concerned but hopeful look on his face.

Dean isn't twelve anymore. He's twenty-seven and he's suddenly aware that what he was seeing just before this, before Sam was here, was a lie. John Winchester never came home from a hunt drunk, never threatened his sons with anything other than an ordinary beating if they were completely out of line. Dean's not even sure he can remember their father ever touching Sam.

He looks at Sam, but he doesn't feel his head turn. He sits up, and when he looks back down at the bed realizes he hasn't come up with his body.

His body is still laying there, fast asleep and completely unaware of his little brother.

……

No living person can enter Hell alive and come back out of it.

That was Sam's biggest problem once he'd found the three things he was looking for. How to get in. But he's found his way.

He stands in front of the Devil's Gate, the colt in one hand, the lyre strapped onto his hip, and the sword on his back. Bobby's staring at him, holding Dean's hunting knife in his hands as if he'd rather be holding anything but. And on the ground, at Sam's feet, is his brother's body. Sam avoids looking at Dean, he has to, he doesn't think he can stand to see him like this. Although he hadn't let Bobby carry him from the car. His hand aches dully and steadily, hasn't stopped in hours

"You sure about this, Sam?" It's the third time Bobby has asked.

Sam nods. He's sure, no room for doubts now. He motions for Bobby to come to him and Bobby does, hands him the knife with a dubious expression on his face.

"You have to watch me, make sure I don't-." He doesn't finish the sentence. Bobby looks pale and unhappy.

"I got you." Is all he says though.

"Make sure nothing sneaks up-." He starts but Bobby interrupts him.

"Nothing getting in or out of this place except humans, Sam. Got a couple of guys to fix the railroads." At Sam's shocked expression Bobby shrugs. "Once you told me where this was going down I figured I better do something of my own to make it safer. Took a while, but the fixes should hold off anything demonic." His expression clearly says that he's not happy with how unsafe it still is.

"Bobby." Sam doesn't have anything to say. There aren't enough thanks in the world.

"You sure you can get in there without letting anything out? I can always call some more hunters, get some back up in case we need it." Bobby suggests and for a moment Sam is tempted. But he shakes his head.

"Nothing should come out. Just close the Gate behind me. I'll be able to open it." He doesn't know if that's true. It's guess work. It's all a lot of guess work. "Okay. I'm ready." He holds out the colt to Bobby who takes it reluctantly.

He kneels down next to Dean and lets his hand rest on his.

"Coming to get you, man."

Then he's up on his feet, and he stands in front of the Devil's Gate. No fear now, just a lot of anger and grim determination. He takes Dean's hunting knife and presses it into his front. He keeps the pressure steady and he's careful, as careful as he can be that he's not hitting vital organs. He needs to be close to death, not dead. Three cuts to be sure, the magic divide again, everything by threes.

"Jesus, Sam." Bobby mutters, but he hands Sam the colt when Sam reaches for it.

Sam's feeling light headed and woozy. His blood is hot and thick. He wipes Dean's blade on his shirt and tucks it into his pocket.

"Be ready to close it, Bobby." He can hear his own voice, knows it's slurred.

He places the muzzle of the colt in the door. He'd be horrified, watching as it spins and knowing he's opening this Gate again, if he could feel anything through the growing numbness of his body. The door explodes open. The air is hot as it blows past his face and standing right in front of it he can smell death and decay in the wind. He holds his breath for a moment, then takes a deep one. He fights back a retch.

He takes the colt out of the door, hands it to Bobby so he can lock the door back up.

Sam takes a deep breath, hears it rattle in his chest. He wipes at the trickle of blood that's at the corner of his mouth. He takes two steps forward and he's in.

Sam is in Hell.

……….

Dean watches carefully from the end of the bed, as his body sleeps and his little brother kneels beside him.

Sam looks down at him, hesitating for just a moment. Dean watches as he places his large hand above Dean's heart. He pricks his Dean's chest with a needle. Five times right above Dean's heart, and it reminds Dean of a Devil's Trap. Then Sam is bringing the needle to his own chest, five precise marks over his heart, pressing carefully between his brother's fingers.

From his pocket he pulls something out; Dean can't see what it is. Sam holds them up. They look almost like they're made of marble and crystal. Sam pulls his hands through the blood that has welled up on their chests. When his palms are smeared he wraps his fingers around the rings. He closes his hands tightly around them and whispers something that Dean can't hear. When Sam opens his hands the blood is gone from them, there's a thin line of red in the groove carved into the rings, shining slightly like garnet stones.

He takes one ring and slips it onto Dean's finger. He takes the other and slips it onto his own. He takes Dean's hand in his.

"Gonna save you, Dean." He whispers as he leans forward to kiss his sleeping brother's lips.

"Son of a bitch." Dean mutters, though his body is as asleep as his brother. He closes his eyes tight against a fury he almost can't control.

When he opens them he's somewhere else, a beach. He's naked and half in the water which is warm and clean.. He turns around to look, to get his bearings and he jumps a little when he sees her in the water. She's no more than ten feet from him, watching him. He starts to open his mouth, to say something, but then she catches his eyes and he's mesmerized by the fall of stars in them.

"Dean." She says it lovingly, like his mother might have when he still had a mother. She smiles softly. _I knew you would get here eventually. _It takes him a moment to realize she's not speaking out loud anymore.

"What are you?" He asks. He's trying to keep himself steady but he's too damned confused.

_Not what, though there are many answers to that. Who. Who is the question you really want to ask. _She moves forward, coming to stand beside him, and she looks out over the ocean. _You do not know all my names as he did. But the one you would know me by is Guinevere. _

He feels like he's been shocked by something. He looks over at her, stares at her really, his mouth hanging open.

_You are an amusing one, Hunter. _She laughs softly, a sound that's musical and lyrical and completely intoxicating.

He's so damned confused, by what he's seen, what he's still seeing. What the fuck were those rings and why is he in the damned ocean. She laughs again.

_We have little time, so I will answer your questions as quickly as I can. _Her face is serious now, the stars keep falling in her eyes, but the smile is gone from her lips. _You are in the ocean, in this ocean, Hunter, because this is my place. I made it for myself when Arthur and I left the world of men. _Dean is too shocked to say anything, just stands dumbly, staring at her and not blinking. _And the rings I gifted your brother, they were a gift; for one whose need was strong enough, because he was the first man in so long to brave coming into the Realm of the Faerie, and because he knew all of my names. They are… were… our wedding rings. And they bind you, as they bound us, body and soul and heart. _

Dean looked down at his left hand. And there, where there had been nothing before was a stone ring, the very ring that he had just seen Sam putting on his finger. Only fucking Sam, the thought is furious and disbelieving but laced with affection, only fucking Sam would marry his fucking brother to save him.

Her peal of laughter makes him jump away from her. It's crystal clear and it echoes over the moving waves. It continues for a long moment and he's mesmerized by the sound of it, by the movement of her hand as it presses delicately over her mouth as if to stop it, by the way her hair moves in a non-existence breeze. Finally she grows quiet. She tilts her head as if listening to something he can't hear. A sick expression paints her graceful features. It makes his own stomach churn.

_They are coming for you. I am sorry, Hunter, but I can not save you from that. I can not even promise you can keep this memory. But I can promise you that I will protect it and guard it. They will not corrupt this one. It will be your beacon, the light that guides you home when you can not see your way in the darkness. _She moves over to him, leans down and he closes his eyes because he can't be that close to her eyes and meet them. It's the first time he realizes how very tall she is, taller even than Sam. She kisses his cheek. _Have heart, Hunter. _

He opens his eyes. His father is kneeling over him, one hand working the tie on Dean's pajama bottoms, the other working at his own belt buckle. Even if Dean wanted to fight, it's too late now that dad has him like this. He's only fourteen after all, there's only so much muscle he can have. Dean looks away, there's no need to taunt his father further, he's far enough now. Sam is safe. Dean stares at his own hand where it bunches in the sheets. A strange feeling washes over him, like water washing over his body. But it's gone as soon as his father's breath, reeking of alcohol, washes over his face. He feels an ache in his hand, a cramp that makes him hold the sheet harder. It seems stupid, but that small pain eases something in him. Not enough to make any of this okay. But it's… _something_.

………

It doesn't escape Sam's notice that the stairway down into Hell is very similar and yet completely dissimilar from the one that led into the Faerie. They're made of obsidian stone that reflects the Hell Fire below and they are slick with blood. He has to move carefully as he makes his way down the endless spiral of stairs.

He's not bleeding anymore, but his blood is still hot and sticky on his shirt and his skin. A spirit can't bleed. He doesn't know how his body is doing, where it lays just outside of the Devil's Gate, under the protective eyes of Bobby.

He keeps his eyes up and away from the Fire below. And he walks, carefully and resolutely.

……….

They strip the flesh from him; his father and his brother, as his mother watches with eyes that are inky black. They strip it piece by piece. His father's eyes are yellow, always yellow, never black like the others. And Sam, Sam's eyes are black. Except that every time he feels the strange ache in his hand Sam's eyes glint green in the light of the Hell Fire. And Dean's thinks that maybe it's more his father who takes the flesh from his bones. But then another piece is being ripped from him, and he throws his head back and screams.

But the ache in his hand pulses strong and sure, and though it's just another pain amongst too many, it's a clean pain. He brings his hand to his face and doesn't even mind that there's no skin over it.

……….

Hell is an endless plain, the sky above is red and the clouds are a wicked black. Lightning strikes from cloud to cloud, angry silver streaks that leave shreds in the sky. The air is hot, suffocating, and dry. There are great pyres of Hell Fire, scattered throughout the plain; fed from the limbs of blood red tree carcasses. The trees might be the worst part, because they look nearly human; knots in the bark that look like screaming faces, limbs twisted and pulled and sap dripping from them like blood.

And in those trees, hung in the limbs that reach and stretch and raise pleadingly towards an unforgiving and dead sky, are cages. Cages made of blood and bone and human flesh stretched like leather. The sound of the damned screaming echoes across the plain. There are demons around the pyres of Hell Fire, and they make a raucous, almost joyous roar for themselves and they bring down the cages and pull people from them. Some they throw onto the pyres until their skin is black and crackles before pulling them off again. Others they torture in other ways, pulling the skin from their flesh, or shoving clawed hands into their eyes. Sam stares, a wave of sickness and weakness rolling over him.

Sam takes his first, hesitant, step off of the stairs and onto the dead and cracked earth. He takes the sword off of his back, feels it's smooth hilt balance in his hand. He takes a deep breath and feels a supernatural calm come over him. The smell of this place, the heat of it, none of it touches him.

He takes another step, and the screams of the damned and the demons are different now, and he can feel them staring. They know he's here now.

……..

The screams he can hear, in his little cage of flesh and bone and blood, his mother's hair still twined into the top of it, have changed. Something is happening. He doesn't know what, can't follow any thought long enough to come up with any kind of theories.

He hurts. That's all he can be aware of. He's retching, because the smell in his cell is worse now. And then he realizes it's because he's smelling himself. Blood, and rotting flesh, and death. Because that's all he is now.

……..

They know the sword when they see it. They scream it's name in his mind, all of it's names; _Fragarach_, _Retaliator_, _Answerer_. And they die with that name on their tongues. Those names, or the words _Boy King_. It doesn't matter what they say, as long as they die. And they do die. Not easily, no, this body he's wandering through Hell in, which is only a shadow of his own, is covered in new wounds and burns and marks.

There is an army here below, and he knows this is the army, all of this not just those they accidentally released a year ago, that Yellow Eyes had meant for Sam to lead. But Sam doesn't need this army. He has his own. Behind him fight the Shades of great men; would-be heroes, heroes who died and chose eternity bound to the sword. It doesn't matter how they came to be there. They are there, beside him and behind him; The Lord of Ulster Conchobar, the sons of Usnech, Fergus mac Rioch, all powerful men one way or another who have held this sword in their hands. And even those who had not wanted to follow him when he first took the sword relish this battle, would relish any battle. He lets them infect him, just for now, and that's the power of this blade, for one who has not bowed down to it. He feels no fear, no doubt and no exhaustion. He is Sam, but Sam is more than what he is outside of Hell. He has to be.

He fights his way through pyres slowly. Though they fight him, and they wound him, he knows they are merely playing with him. They're leading him somewhere, pushing him, routing his direction. Sam tries for a while to fight it, but they cut him off, always returning him to the direction that they want him to take. And finally, he goes, killing them as he does, because he doesn't know where to find his brother and their direction is better than no direction.

…….

His father is killing his brother. Dean can't save him, can't move. But John has Sam, small Sammy who hasn't yet had his growth spurt, who has barely hit puberty, by the back of his neck. And he's slamming Sam's head into the wall. Over and over, a steady thumping. And Dean can see from this angle the way Sam's face is breaking. There's cheekbone visible on one side of his face. And Dean's pretty sure his one eye is actually coming out of it's socket. Dad stops, throws Sam to the floor at Dean's face.

It's _his_ Sam, Sam who is taller than him and who is all toned muscles and skin that's soft to Dean's touch. His face is in ruins. Dean can barely recognize it.

He chokes out his brother's name, falls to his knees beside him. Sam tries to turn his head, tries to reach a hand out to Dean. But their father's booted foot comes down on the hand, the heel digging into it until Dean hears the crunching of bones. Sam screams and his blood splatters Dean's face.

Dean closes his eyes, but he hears his father's command. Finish him, their father says, that's an order son.

And Dean screams and screams and screams. His right hand goes around Sammy's throat, squeezes as hard as it can. He needs both hands. But his left hand cramps violently, and Dean has to hold it against his chest as he screams again.

…….

The plains are endless, stretch farther than he can hope to see. And he has no way of knowing where to find his brother or how. He's tiring, despite the phantom warriors at his back, and the ancient sword in his hand.

There are a great many demons circling him now. They aren't attacking, so he thinks wherever they are leading they must be getting close. They don't touch him, but he can hear their thoughts. They scream for their Boy King, for Sam, or who they think Sam is.

Just when he's beginning to think he can't go on, that there is no strength left in him to continue this he looks around him, frantic, and finds that he has come to base of a different staircase. At the sight of it his hands twists painfully and cramps. He hisses in pain, tries to keep his grip on the sword.

_We fade, Boy King, we are not enough to stay the course. This must end soon._

"Just a while longer. God, please, just stay a little longer." He whispers.

_We try._

"There is no god here." The voice is deep and velvety smooth.

Sam looks up the stairs, where he can see a platform, but not the person standing on it, he's too far away.

The sudden silence of the demons is overwhelming. Sam feels his heart pounding in his chest, the smell of death is nearly overwhelming.

He lifts the sword in front of him as the man, if that is even the word for him, begins to descend the stairs. It feels heavier than it did. He chances a look back at the Shades who have fought with him, and he feels a twist in his gut to see that they are less substantial now.

He faces the man again and he gives a start at how close he's gotten. Sam can see him now, his pale hair long and pulled back, his high cheekbones and pale skin, the thin line of his lips, and the pale blue of his eyes. He wasn't expecting that, the eyes. He takes a step back, away from him. The man smiles easily.

"How is it that you are so frightened of me, and yet all they-." He gestures with an elegant hand to the demons that surround them. "They fear you, hate you too of course. But they, who fear little, fear you." The man looks him over, letting his pale eyes drag slowly over Sam's wounded form in a way that makes Sam shudder. "Not that that has stopped them from trying to undo you here, I see. Although, I do think part of the fear is this little ragtag army you've brought with you."

Sam has to fight to keep his eyes on the man before him, to ignore the impatient hissing of the demons that surround them, and the low curses of the warriors from the sword.

"Tell me what you want, Samuel, so that I can tell you no." The smile is back, perfect and calculating.

"I want my brother back, you son of a bitch." Sam snarls.

The man's smile widens. It's almost feral now.

"Of course you do." The laugh he lets slip past his lips is cold. "You Winchesters and your ridiculous desire to die for one another."

"I don't want to die for him. I want him back. And then I'm going to walk both of us out of here." Sam straightens his shoulders, tightens his grip on the sword. "Are you the one who holds his contract? Because if you aren't you're wasting my time."

He can still hear the whispers of the demons in his mind. They still call to him. But they call to the other man as well, a name Sam can't quite catch, but he can feel the importance of it.

"I hold all the contracts, littlest Winchester, all of them. Especially your brothers. But I won't be giving it to you, and even if I did, you won't be able to find a loophole. Your brother is mine."

Sam raises the sword, feels a growl start low in his throat.

"He's _mine_." He spits out. The man cocks his head at him, eyes narrowing.

"I'm afraid your sword is useless to you now. And even if it weren't, it would not work against me."

Sam thinks this might be stupid, the move he makes now. He knows he can't fight this man, whoever he is, and he has a vague idea of who or what he might be. But the reckless rage of the sword fills him and he swings, all his human muscle and emotion behind it.

He's thrown backwards by a simple movement of the man's wrist. He hits the ground rolling, and he can feel the heat of the pyres as he finally comes to a grinding halt in the dead earth near one. He leans up on one elbow, blinking the blood and dirt out of his eyes.

_We have taken you as far as we can. Even we can not fight what he is. We must rest, as we have rested before. _

_We are sorry, Boy King, that we can not take you further._

There is something different, almost deferent, in the way the men of the sword call him Boy King. It means something else to them, something more than what the demons mean. He turns his head to see them all, more than thirty five if his eyes can be trusted. They go to one knee before him and bow their heads. The demons rustle and shift, but come no closer.

Sam nods to them, vision still clouded.

"Thank you." The words aren't enough but they are all he has.

He knows they are fading, he can feel the indifference that has let him get through this place leaving him. The screams of the damned catch his ears now. His hands are shaking, he's going to be sick, but he forces himself to calm down until he can finish what he needs to do.

The blue eyed man is coming towards him.

Sam hesitates for a moment, but he knows what he has to do. His plan, his three-fold plan, is almost done. He lowers his hand, lets the sword fall to the floor with a clamor. The man's eyes narrow, as if he knows that Sam still has something. And Sam does.

"What are you up to, Samuel? Azazel said you were one to watch. He said you would be our Boy King, my successor, when the time came. He said many things, until your brother shot him with that _gun_ and made him no more." His distaste when he says the word 'gun' is palpable. Sam can't help the smile that curves his lips.

Sam gets his feet under him, stands unsteadily.

He reaches around himself to remove the lyre from his side. He doesn't watch the other demons, though he can hear them moving forward slowly. He watches the man, watches his cool demeanor vanish, watches the clear blue eyes swirl into inky blackness and his face twist in what Sam would call fear and anger on anything else but has no name for on him. For a second fear, real bone deep fear, freezes him. But then he can her his father's voice in his head. No hesitation.

He runs his bruised and bloody fingers over the ancient strings. It nothing beautiful, he doesn't know how to play, but that doesn't matter. The man, the demon, the devil, whatever Sam wants to call him, stops short as he reaches for Sam, for the lyre.

The other demons scream, cover what Sam thinks would be their ears. And finally, finally, Sam can catch the name

The man grimaces, he's obviously trying to control his features; but emotions so strong Sam can't name them move across his face with lightning speed.

"I name you, Orcus, and I make one request. For the sound of music, not heard in this place in thousands of years." He takes a deep breath, keeps the lyre between them like a shield. "I want my brother's soul. I want him out of here, alive, with me."

The man's face twists into a savage snarl and the words that leave him mouth are in no language Sam knows or has ever heard.

"You must honor it. That was the agreement made." The voice comes from behind Sam and is distinctly feminine. Sam does not turn to look.

The woman comes around to them both, moves to stand next to Orcus, who is silent. Sam stares. She could be, at first glance, sister to the Queen who gave him the rings. But her eyes are black and the fires of Hell have darkened her skin. And her face, there is something much darker in her face. She puts a small hand on the man's arm and he shakes her off.

"The agreement, my love." She says softly, looking at Sam. The man snarls again, looks at Sam as if he might rip him apart.

"Go." The word is a curse from his unwilling lips. "Do not look back, do not doubt, even for a second. If you turn your head so much as an inch I will snatch him back from you. I will snatch you both. And you will not be their Boy King, but you will wish for eternity that that was the path you had chosen." The woman smiles up at the man. He does not meet her gaze. She turns her black eyed gaze to Sam.

"You would have made a good successor." She says simply.

Sam shudders.

………

The impact is jarring. His cage groans in protest as he moans in pain. His skin is still new, still too tight on his bone. There is the bright light of Hell Fire trickling through the cracks in his cage now and they are nearly blinding.

He sits unmoving for a long moment, then the steady pain in his hand becomes unbearable. He moves slowly and hesitantly towards the front of the cell, pushes on it with the hand that doesn't hurt. It creaks open and Dean blinks his eyes confusedly at the scene before him.

There is a man and a women, demons both of them because he can see the black of their eyes, standing the center of a mass of demons. The woman almost sparks a memory in him, almost, and for a moment the pain in his hand is replaced with a soothing feeling.

But it's the man who faces them that draws him. It's- it's Sam. His heart stops, stutters, and starts again. His eyes widen. He knows it can't be true, doesn't want to let this vision draw him in like so many before it. But he can't help it. The sight of Sam's back, tense and taught and, god, covered in blood, is too much.

"Sammy?" His voice is hoarse, too much screaming, or maybe he hasn't used it in a long time, he's not sure.

Sam twitches, the slightest movement of his head, and his left hand clenches. Dean takes a tentative step forward and his legs scream in protest. Everything hurts. He staggers a bit, almost falls, but manages to catch himself. As he moves closer he can see that Sam is covered in blood and bruises and dirt.

"Sammy?" It all feels different from the things he's seen before.

"You must follow him." The woman speaks and draws his attention away from his brother.

He blinks in confusion, nothing makes sense and everything feels off and wrong. More wrong even than the things he's felt before this.

"He is Oprheus, come to bring you from the land of dead." She says with laughter in her voice.

Dean doesn't get the joke, can't wrap his mind around the name either. That's not Orpheus, that's Sam. He's almost to his brother, reaches out a hand to touch him.

"No." The man's voice is cold. His stare, blacker than black, cuts through Dean and makes him fall to his knees on the bloody ground. "You must follow him. And he will lead you. And should one look back or the other reach forward, I will take you both for myself." He snarls.

The woman at his side puts her hand on his arm. She whispers something to him that Dean can not hear. Then the man is gone, Dean does not see him go. The woman smiles with something that might have been kindness on any other face.

Dean gasps quietly, sees suddenly a woman in white standing waist deep in the ocean with him. She smiles at him, and there is motherly love and warmth in her star filled eyes.

_Follow your brother. Go quickly, Hunter, and quietly. You will know when you are free again. For now, follow, and do not question, as he once followed you._

Dean shakes his head as the image and the voice fade. When he looks around the woman is gone. There are demons on either side of he and Sam but they are keeping their distance.

"Come on, Dean. I'm getting you out of here, man." Sam's voice is tense and hard to hear.

But Dean gets himself back onto his feet and follows him, quickly and without question, just as Guinevere had told him to. He doesn't even realize he knows her name.

………

Sam leads his brother through, from, Hell.

The sword is in his hand, the lyre back around his waist, and on his hand, his left hand which is not aching now, the stone ring is clearly visible.

He does not look back. God, he wants to, but he knows better. He keeps his eyes firmly on the staircase he came down who knows how long ago. He thinks he can hear Dean's footfalls behind him, maybe even the low humming of Metallica. He would smile if he could.

He can no longer hear the voices of the demons in his head. It's blessedly quiet in there. Its quiet everywhere. He can feel eyes on him, but he keeps his own ahead.

It takes longer to walk out than it did for Sam to fight his way in. He's tired, so weary and terrified that he'll break and turn, lose Dean forever. He staggers briefly, but manages to keep himself on his feet.

By the time they finally reach the stairs he's holding his head in his hands, fingers clenching painfully on his skull to keep his head facing forward. The ring on his left hand is alarmingly silent. The closer they get to the stairs the more pain he can feel, the wounds on his body somehow more real than they were. And there's blood coming from the wounds in his chest again, the ones he gave himself.

He remembers the words the woman said to the man;_ Peace, my love, he'll be lucky if he survives to get out. _He can only hope that Bobby patched him up well enough.

They reach the door, the Devil's Gate and Sam stops, staring at it for a long moment.

This is the end one way or another of this whole thing.

Sam puts his hand on the door and pushes.

...

Dean opens eyes that are gritty and dry. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision.

He tries to turn his head, but his muscles are stiff and unmoving. Panic seizes him and he tries to scream, but his throat is raw and dry and won't work.

Hands grab his face, pull his gaze down so that he meets Bobby's frantic look.

"Just breath a minute, damn it. Just breathe." Bobby demands.

And Dean takes in one frantic breath and then another. He turns his head slowly, not needing to ask where his brother is. He can feel him, just to the side of him.

He turns and he looks and his breath stops again.

Sammy is covered in blood, more wounds than Dean can count, and even from here he can see that his breath is shallow and labored. His body, which is just starting to warm up with the restart of blood pumping through it, goes cold and numb.

"Sammy." He groans and reaches a hand towards him though the pins and needles in his arm are numbing. "Sammy, no."

His tears wash the grit out of his eyes, but he can't move.

He can't get to Sammy. And Dean screams for him, voice shrill and shredded.

He just wants his brother 

………………………………...

**Author's Note III: **One more chapter to go. Thank you so very much, really, for the _amazing _reviews of last chapter. Seriously, it pushed me to get this chapter out. So thanks. It's great to know that people are enjoying the story. I hope this chapter works for you too.


	7. Home

-1**Title:** Orpheus Drowning  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Characters:** Dean/Sam (Wincest)  
**Summary: **In the aftermath of Sam's plan.  
**Disclaimer:** So not mine, if they were I would have better things to do then write about them.  
**Warnings:** Angst, maybe some fluff, and plenty of incest.

**Author's Note: **Last chapter now. Sorry it took so freaking long. This chapter kicked my ass about a million times.

………………………………...

His blood runs sluggish, as if its become used to immobility. It burns as it goes, making his muscles twitch and ache and god- it's painful. His eyes are dry behind stiff lashes. Breathing is a battle, and it's not one he seems to be winning.

Bobby is still leaning over him, holding him down as slight convulsions rocks his body; a body dead for longer than he can know, a body that seems to be fighting against living again.

"Sam." His voice, and he's surprised he still has one, is low and rough and he's not sure Bobby even hears him. "Sam."

"Breath, Dean, damn it, you have to take a minute and breath. Your brother's fine." But Bobby's eyes meet his and Dean can see the fear in them.

Panic floods through him and he tries to push Bobby off of him, but he can't raise his arms, can't move his legs, or even make his mouth form any word other than his little brother's name.

He doesn't really understand where he is or how. He just knows he's _out_ and Sam's _dying_ and he can't, can't, _can't_ let that happen. He's fighting so hard, to move and speak, and then he's fighting just to breath because his body can't handle everything else. He blinks his eyes widely, tries to turn his head again to look at his brother lying just a few feet away, so close he could touch him if he could just _move_, but it's harder to do a second time.

"Sam!" His brother's name off his dry lips is an inhuman sound even to his own ears and Bobby flinches.

"You need to shut up and breath, god damn it, Dean." Bobby looks over in Sam's direction and Dean can see real fear now, not held back. Bobby looks back down at Dean and then nods his head as if he's made a decision. "Okay, jackass, since you won't cooperate, you lay here and keep thrashing like a fish on dry land and I'm gonna get your brother in the damned car so we can get him to a hospital." Bobby starts to stand up off of him. "If you're still alive when I get back I'll shove you in with us." And then Bobby is gone from his field of vision.

Dean hadn't noticed it was raining until that moment. It's a cold and steady fall and it's starting to soak through his clothing. He lays there, staring up at a dark sky, and tries to make his body listen to him. It won't. And the tide of his panic washes over him again. If he can't move he can't help Sam, and he has to help Sam.

He's halfway to sitting up when Bobby gets back to him; panting and gasping and his vision is faded and fuzzy. Bobby doesn't give him time to adjust, just drags him off the ground. Where his hands grab Dean they burn, touch seems like such a foreign thing. The sense memory of his skin being pulled off brings a scream from his lips. Bobby hesitates for a moment, but doesn't let him down, just keeps half-dragging him to the car because his legs certainly aren't helping them any.

Dean's pushed into the front seat and his body protests loudly at the bending of his limbs. He turns his head, grits his teeth against the sharp pain, so he can look at Sam. His younger brother is sprawled boneless in the backseat, deathly pale and covered in blood. There's so much blood. Dean shudders, tries to speak, but his voice isn't cooperating.

Bobby climbs into the car and Dean just keeps his eyes glued to his brother's face as they take off, leaving the graveyard and the Devil's Gate and Hell behind them. Except that Dean can feel them clinging to his skin, like ash and dirt and blood.

Dean shivers.

He reaches into the backseat, ignoring the roar of pain in his muscles or how hard it is to move his body in any way that he wants to, and grabs Sam's hand.

It's like a balm to everything in him that's aching; his body, his heart, his soul, all those things left battered from however long he was gone. For just one moment he can take a deep breath and not feel burning in his lungs from the smoke of Hell Fire. Then he feels something else, something that hurts worse than anything else; how weak his brother is, how slow his heart beat has become, the pressure in Sam's lungs that's making it hard to for him draw in breath.

His eyes catch on the red gleaming stone in the center of the ring on his finger, a ring that wasn't there before.

The same ring that is on Sam's hand.

………

There is only dark for a what seems like very long time. He can't hear or feel or see.

Then there is fire in his lungs, spreading through his blood to every part of him. Then numbness, as if his body has cut itself off from everything else. For a long time he floats in the darkness, with no thought as to who or what he is.

But eventually, and he has no way of knowing time, there is sound.

A voice, harsh and tense, and the sound he knows is a heartbeat, one as familiar as his own. He wants to respond, but finds he has no way of doing so. And so for a while he hides in the darkness again. The fire in his body is banking, slowly fading to nothing.

But it is a slow process and he is not inclined to rush it. And finally, when the fire has cooled to a low burn, there is peace; a small bastion of light in the dark. It speaks of love and home and comfort. His spirit, if that's what he would call it, rests here a while.

……..

Bobby doesn't tell Dean what story he concocted for the hospital or the police that the hospital are required to call. Bobby doesn't tell Dean much of anything; only that Dean can't go to the hospital and he has to have patience, that he's damned lucky and a damned fool. Actually, on second thought, Bobby tells Dean a lot of things, just nothing Dean wants to hear.

Sam is alive, he knows that much, without touching him or even being anywhere near him he can feel his brother. Now that he's aware of the connection, even if he doesn't fully understand it, he can feel it thrumming between them. But Sam is faint and so damned faded and it's been weeks, two weeks now.

Dean still can't quite walk, can't talk either or maybe doesn't want to talk, he doesn't even know for himself. Sam would know, he thinks, Sam would know if it was physical or mental and he'd chide Dean one way or the other. If Dean could make his voice cooperate, and part of him wonders if it's gone forever or if he'll find it again when he has Sam back with him like he found it in the graveyard when he first woke back up in this used and abused body, he would demand that Bobby take him to his brother. As it is he shoots daggers and glares at the man whenever he's in the motel room with him. But Bobby ignores him, or tells him it's for his own good.

He doesn't sleep well, most of the time when he closes his eyes he still sees Hell. When he doesn't see Hell he sees Sam dead; not in that stupid town with a knife in his back though, no, he sees Sammy dead on the ground in front of the Devil's Gate or in the backseat of the Impala, and maybe that's worse, Dean's not sure. Sam dead is Sam dead but there's something about Sam dying for _him_ that puts an awful rock in Dean's already unsteady stomach.

Everyday that passes despair and fear and anger begin to take over his vision, until he's seeing the world only in shades of deepest blues and vibrant reds, until the slightest look from Bobby makes him curl his still weak hands into fists and snarl soundlessly.

He runs the fingers of his right hand over the ring on his left, but he can't feel anything more from Sam than he did after that first night, when the doctors had supposedly stabilized him.

Dean would cry maybe but he's starting to think that Hell somehow dried his tears, the few that he ever had, away.

………

There is love still for the taking, but where comfort and at least some small degree of peace has been there is the low thrum of despair and a heavier note of fear. It wakes him from his healing sleep, like someone calling his name from very far.

He struggles to surface through the darkness, to get back to whatever or whoever it is that is calling to him. He thinks it should be easy, but it isn't. There are things in this darkness, things that try to keep him, to pull him further in. They aren't malicious exactly, but he doesn't like the feeling of never reaching light again.

His understanding of himself only goes so far, he doesn't remember breath or sight or touch. But he knows there's something he should be reaching for. And he reaches, with the abstract idea of arms, he claws his way out.

Sam opens his eyes wide and tries to suck in a desperate breath. The breathing tube chokes him, although he's not aware enough yet of who or where or how or why to know exactly what it is that's choking him.

His eyes roll back in his head, and his chest tightens.

The heart monitor flat-lines; a high, reedy whine.

He doesn't know that this is the second time it's done so.

……..

Dean's finally sleeping when his hand cramps, the fingers curling in on themselves, and he wakes suddenly, mouth wide open in a scream that's completely silent because his voice is still missing. He throws the covers off of himself and stands from the bed, not caring that it hurts, and oh god it hurts; like sunburn and pulled muscles and maybe even broken bones.

He's wearing pajama bottoms that are Sam's and way too long on him and a thin white t-shirt that's his own but smells suspiciously like his brother. He doesn't admit, even to himself, that that's probably why of all the plain, soft, worn t-shirts he has this was the one he chose. He doesn't bother with shoes or his jacket, not because he doesn't want to, but because the panic he's woken into doesn't allow room for any thought other than getting to Sam.

Something is very, very wrong. Bobby isn't in the room, and that's both a blessing and a curse. Dean's not sure if he can get anywhere without Bobby and he doesn't actually know where the hospital Sam is in is, or how close. But he walks to the door anyway, throws it open and looks out.

Bobby's truck is gone, but the Impala is parked just outside the door. He can see signs further up the road for the hospital, so it can't be far. He looks behind him at the table near the door and the keys to his baby catch his grateful eye. He's worried whether he'll make the few steps back into the room to grab them, he doesn't want to think about what he'd do if he had to search for them.

He nearly kills himself more times than he can count on the short drive, and he's pretty sure that it's in no way legal, the way he parked. But the panic and fear coursing through his blood means he doesn't give two shits about a parking ticket or even if the Impala gets towed.

The hospital is a small, old looking thing, but a hospital none the less. Dean breathes deeply as he braces himself for the walk in, ignoring the stab of pain in his chest that flares up. And then he's walking, somehow ignoring the endless, bone deep ache of his body which still isn't quite used to being alive again.

It isn't until he reaches the desk at the ER, it's the middle of the night and the only part of the hospital that's unlocked, that Dean realizes he doesn't know what name Bobby has given them, or that even if he did he can't _speak_ it. He's stumbling, legs trying to give out on him, arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up against the walls and then the desk. He can't speak, his breath is coming in shaky puffs and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. The nurse at the desks looks up at him, startled and obviously concerned, asking him what's wrong and can he breath. He nods his head, frantic, he doesn't have time for this.

"Sir, are you hurt? Are you bleeding?" She asks.

She's friendly and pleasant and obviously worried that the crazy man who just stumbled into her ER is going to die, but Dean doesn't care. He shakes his head violently; no, no, _no_. He pushes off the desk, tries to follow that thread of connection that binds him to his little brother. But the nurse is around the desk, grasping his shoulder in one hand and putting her other arm around his back and he both hates and loves her just then, because while she's keeping him from finding his brother, she's also the only reason he's still standing. His whole body can't take the effort of staying upright. It hurts so badly he has to grit his teeth against the pain.

It's pure luck, he thinks, that Bobby comes crashing through the doors leading from the belly of the hospital just then. The older man stops, clearly startled, and then he's barreling down on Dean so fast it makes Dean pinwheel backwards before he can stop himself. He almost falls over himself, almost takes the nice nurse that he loves and hates with him.

"Was just comin' to get you. Let's go. It's not good." Bobby's short and concise, no extra words and even if Dean had questions he knows he wouldn't get answers. 

The older man practically drags him down a hallway into one of what may be only twenty or so rooms at most. The damned place is so _small_. He hears the hard, mind-numbing whine of the flat-lining heart monitor long before they enter the room.

Dean's breath slams hard back into his bruised and battered body, leaving him gasping and choking. He tries to get Sam's name past his lips but he _can't_. So he pushes off of Bobby, manages to shove a nurse out of his way and grasps his brother's hand before he falls and falls hard onto his knees next to the bed his brother is dying in.

And even though he can't give it voice every part of him screams; _Sam, Sam, Sammy. No_.

………

He's tired, so tired, the kind of tired that means it's time to give up. 

Everything outside of the darkness is turmoil and sharp pain and desperate despair.

Except, except for that one thing he can't ignore.

And he reaches one last time, one last, because that's all he has.

He reaches.

Sam's eyes open once more, breath again stopped by the forceful push of air through the breathing tube, but there are doctors this time to pull it out, to help him breath for himself.

They're pulling the shock cart away from him, and there are a lot of voices and Sam can't understand a god damned one of them except that they sound shocked and confused and frantic.

Sam becomes aware of his body slowly, starting with the tightness in his chest as he breathes and moving out from there until it ends or maybe only really begins at the sensations of a rough, calloused hand gripping his. He turns his head, ignoring the exasperated noises of the nurses around him and meets his brother's eyes. A shiver runs through his body, the feeling of someone walking over his grave and then it's gone and not nearly as unsettling as it probably should be.

Dean's on the floor, on his knees beside Sam's bed, and he looks like hell, like so much used up and tired flesh. But Sam's damned if he can think of anything he's ever seen that's been more beautiful than the sight of his big brother, pale and wide eyed and slightly frayed around the edges.

He dredges up a smile from somewhere, closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them again cautiously. But Dean is still there, looking pained and exhausted, but there.

"Dean." One word, just his name, but Dean's eyes widen at the sound of it. His hand on Sam's tightens.

The doctors and nurses are still talking, Bobby has a hand on Dean's shoulder, obviously trying to get him to move out of the way, Dean isn't talking and somewhere in the back of his mind Sam knows that should worry him. But nothing matters except that he can feel Dean's relief coursing through him and his heart is calming into a steady rhythm, a rhythm echoed to the very last beat by Dean's.

Dean is _alive_.

………..

It's a full hour before they let Dean back into the room. He has to keep a hand on the wall as he makes his way around the room and over to the chair tucked in near Sam's bed.

Sam seems to be sleeping but Dean can feel his heartbeat pick up as Dean sits beside him. Dean just watches him for a long moment. He's still puzzling how he feels, now that he knows Sam isn't going to die on him, about the stunt Sam pulled; pulling him out of Hell. Bobby explained some of it; the sword that they'd gotten in Ireland and something about a lyre and Orpheus and Dean had had a sudden flash of that woman in Hell who had called Sam by that name.

Most of it Dean didn't understand for shit, but he gets the idea.

He's a little pissed, no, a little furious. Sam had promised him, given him his word, that he would let Dean go when the time came. He stares at Sam, watching the slow movement of his chest as he breathes. No tubes now, just Sam. But his ears still ring with the sharp whine of his brother crashing, dying.

"Don't get mad at me. Don't." Sam's voice is hoarse, two weeks of not being used, and pure exhaustion. "_What was I supposed to do?_" Sam opens green-brown eyes and gives Dean a pleading look.

Dean shakes his head. He has no answer and even if he did, still no voice to speak them with. And those words, _what am I supposed to do_, words Sam can't possibly remember because Dean had spoken them to his dead body, make Dean shudder. But Sam shouldn't have taken the risk. That was the point of Dean making the deal, to make sure that Sam lived.

"You're _here_." Sam rasps out after too long a silence. His tone is a little disbelieving. He's staring at Dean with something like wonder now.

Dean just stares at him, brow still furrowed, still feeling the pulse of worry and fear and fury in his blood. It makes it easier to ignore the pain in his body. Sam's hand twitches as if he wants to reach for Dean, but he doesn't. And Dean's grateful, doesn't know if he can handle Sam touching him right now.

"I'm not-." Sam coughs quietly, loses his breath, and takes a minute to get it back. "I'm not any stronger than you are. I don't want to live my life without you. I couldn't- god- you were _dead_, Dean. In my arms and _dead_." Sam closes his eyes tightly and Dean doesn't need to feel his exhaustion to see it written loudly across his face. He doesn't need to reach far to know exactly how Sam's feeling either.

What a pair the two of them make, neither one ever willing to just let the other go.

Sam's eyes open again and he looks over at Dean. Dean's tongue darts out, wets his dry lips, and he can't ignore it when Sam is looking so pained. Dean leaves the chair, sits beside Sam on the bed and reaches out to grab Sam's face, to hold his jaw and rub his thumbs in circles over the strong line of it. He stares at Sam, tries to say with his eyes what he can't say with his voice; how angry, how proud, how furious, how grateful, how scared he is. Even with a voice he's never been that great at communicating, but Sam's always been the one who could read him.

Some of the fear in Sam's face leaves, not all of it by any means, but some small part. His hands, large and dry and warm, cup Dean's face, pull him down until their foreheads are touching. They're still like that for a while, breathing in each other's breath, heartbeats calming and then speeding up and then slowing again.

Dean doesn't know who closes the distance, doesn't care once Sam's lips are on his and finally, _finally_, the taste of death and ash is washed away; replaced with the sweetness that is Sam and life and survival.

He knows somewhere in the back of his mind that this release is brief and temporary, but he'll take what he can get. It's been two weeks since he was brought back from the dead, and this is the first moment that he's felt alive.

………………………………...

_Epilogue:_

A month passes before Dean stops moving and looking like a man on his death bed.

When Sam had first been released from the hospital and Bobby had driven him back to the motel he'd been shocked.

Sam had stared, taking in the pale expanse of Dean's bare chest, the slightly jutting bone of his hips where the pants he was wearing had slid down just a bit and the blanket was off him almost completely. Dean had stood, staggering slightly, and making his way towards Sam. And all Sam could do was stand, completely still and somewhat in shock, as his brother moved like a sick man, like a dying man, until he stood in front of him. His eyes were pale and cloudy, dark circles under them leaving the rest of his skin looking even paler in comparison. And Sam had shuddered and tried to reach for him, only have Dean skitter backwards and away from him, shaking and gasping for breath.

And it's one month later, after the first night since they've been back together that Dean doesn't wake up screaming, that the hint of swagger is back in his walk. After that he sleeps, albeit restlessly, through the night. The dark circles start to fade, the color is back in his skin. He eats ridiculous amounts of food, even though it's not quite with the same gusto as before.

It's something. And Sam's taking whatever he can get. Sam looks for their first hunt the next day and finds what looks like a haunting three towns over. Sam's thinks the light returns to Dean for at least a moment as he pulls his guns out to clean them.

……….

The first time Dean speaks it's to scream Sam's name just before a werewolf gets the jump on him.

It's exactly three months since the day Sam brought Dean out from Hell, head straining to face forward and never throw a questioning glance behind him. The silence has been a hell of it's own.

"God damn it, Sammy." He's almost waiting for the rough grab of his face, the hands that should be running over his skin to make sure he's not injured anywhere else, but that doesn't happen. Dean doesn't touch anyone these days. "Stupid ass. What the hell were you thinking, turning your back?" His voice is low and pitched oddly and rough. It doesn't sound like Dean at all, but it's him.

And if Sam cries in relief to hear his brother's gruff voice calling his name and then cursing him out for his stupidity, then that's okay. The tears wash away months of silence and the feeling of tightness in his throat. He doesn't touch his brother, but he smiles at Dean when Dean's done yelling at him.

He gets Dean a glass of water for his sore, underused throat, even though Sam's the one sporting matching claw marks on either side of his back.

………

Dean touches him for the first time since the hospital three months after he starts speaking again.

Not that he's been speaking much, but it's still better than the absolute silence of before. They're outside a dive bar in the middle of Kansas and Dean, for the first time since coming back, reaches his hand out and takes the keys from Sam.

His touch lingers over Sam's, fingers brushing lightly over the palm of Sam's hands. Sam shivers violently. At first because the simple touch of his brother's skin on his is enough to make him painfully hard. Then because the touch seems to solidify the connection the rings had started. And all of sudden Sam's slammed with visions, things he never wanted to see and things it makes him weep to think of his brother seeing. They both end up on the ground, hands clutching at each other in an effort to stay upright and to offer some small comfort.

It's a while before it stops and when it does there's a quiet in his mind that hasn't been there in nearly two years. Dean is a solid presence in the back of his mind, curled up tight, not taking space, just there.

Dean leans forward, breathing hard, and rests his clammy head against Sam's, forehead to forehead.

"Only you." Dean murmurs, voice gruff, but Sam can feel the warmth of it running through his blood.

"Only me what?" He gasps out, still trying to catch his breath, slow his tears.

"Only you would do something as girly as marrying a guy to save his life." Dean answers, low and heated words, the only way Dean speaks now it seems. It sends a shiver up Sam's spine every time he opens his mouth.

"Had to- jesus, Dean- I had to." He manages to get out before the sobs start shaking his body. It's backwards, he knows, it should be him comforting Dean.

But Dean's arms are warm as they wrap around him, warm the way they used to be, before he'd started wasting away. They're strong and sure and they feel and smell the way Sam remembers them and it's been so damned long since he's been able to touch or be touched by his brother; too much between them, too much between Dean and himself and Sam and himself. Just too much.

"Had a sword too." He mumbles finally, when the sobs have stopped and all that's left are the quiet tears.

Dean's laughter is deliverance, it's Heaven, and more importantly, it's home.

……..

Dean makes love to Sam exactly nine months after Sam risked life and limb and soul to drag his sorry ass out of Hell.

He eats his food with relish, drinks his alcohol the same way. He hunts with a disturbing amount of joy in his heart every damned time they come upon one of those son of a bitch demons that got out of the Devil's gate. He drives his baby all around the damned country and it all looks fucking brand new. He sings his songs so loud that Sam actually tells him to shut up and this just four hours after telling Dean, with a sappy grin on his face, that he never wants Dean to stop talking again. But even with all of this he still can't quite bring himself to touch his brother with anything other than lukewarm affection.

But it's a full moon, and they're two days off a hunt, and holed up in a little motel. Dean has been feeling maudlin and grumpy, not able to pull out of himself for the last week or so and he doesn't know why. And Sam went and got himself hurt again, and damn it all if Dean isn't going to start smacking the crap out of him every time he pulls his 'throwing myself on the pike for my brother' bit, like Dean doesn't have reflexes and instincts of his own or the ability to get himself out of the damned way.

Dean's sitting in a chair by the window, fingers idly fidgeting with the clasp on Sam's laptop, never fully opening it, just pressing it down and then clicking the top back down. It makes a small, nervous tapping noise, but that doesn't bother Sam.

Sam's asleep on one bed, half naked, pants riding low on his hips, and he's sprawled like only Sam can sprawl. In the moonlight he's painted silver and midnight shadows and Dean's not really one for dime store romance novel metaphors but his little brother is a god damned work of art at that moment even in spite of the glaringly white bandage wrapped along his right forearm.

He moves in the moonlight, lets out a small noise that's close to a moan, and Dean can feel the heat run through his blood like it hasn't in months. No memories of the horrific things visited upon him in Hell to dampen it, they're the farthest thing from his mind. It's almost a shock to feel desire and want and need, things he hasn't felt in so long that he was starting to think they'd been burned out of him.

He leaves the chair carefully and makes his way to the bed, sinking down onto to it carefully. Sam makes a small noise in his sleep and rolls over on his side to almost curl around Dean. His left hand reaches out blindly, but unerringly and grabs Dean's. As always, when they do touch, it brings his awareness of Sam to the forefront. But Dean's getting used to that like he's become used to the weight of the stone ring on his finger and the looks they get when people notice them.

He's never told Sam, but of the three the ring is the only thing he's really comfortable looking at or touching. The sword he won't touch, ever, there's something off about it and Dean won't touch bare skin to it no matter what, doesn't even like to think of it sitting in the trunk of his baby, but Sam's right when he says it's not safe anywhere else. The lyre makes his chest hurt, the way it hurt that last night with Sam, what he _thought_ was his last night with Sam. It's painful and sad and he doesn't like to look at it. He's grateful that Sam keeps it wrapped safely and has only unwrapped it that one time, to show Dean what it was and what it looked like, this instrument that had apparently saved his soul.

But the ring, the ring which seem as much a part of him as his own flesh now, he can deal with those. He has the vaguest, sheerest memory, of a dark haired woman with stars in her eyes. And it's the only comforting vision, memory, whatever, he has from his time in Hell. And yeah, he can see the irony in coming out of Hell with a good memory. But he thinks it's a good thing he did or he might never have been able to find himself again out here, in the world, with Sam.

So he tightens his hand around Sam's for a brief moment before pulling it free and moving it to brush the soft hair out of Sam's face. He'd forgotten how soft Sam's hair was, how it felt between his fingers. He runs his hand through it again and feels his breath catch when Sam's eyes open sleepily, blinking up at him in the bright moonlight.

"Dean." It's a bare whisper of breath but Dean feels set on fire with it.

He leans down over his little brother and kisses him, all tongue and desperation and fierce need that has him aching all over and wanting Sam to feel it too. Sam hesitates, but when Dean moves to straddle his hips he moans deeply into Dean's mouth and grasps at his shoulders, pulling his closer.

It seems to take forever and no time at all. Sam is oddly silent and Dean finds himself murmuring against his lips, his skin, into his hair and the soft spot just behind his ear; words he hasn't said since the night he died and words he's _never_ said. He takes his time with Sam, slow and steady and Sam's body twists into shapes and angles made beautiful by the moonlight. And when he's finally inside his brother; warm and tight and so much like home it brings tears to eyes that he thought Hell Fire had dried, he takes a deep breath and it smells like clean air and the tang of ocean water. Sam's fingers are tangled in his near his head on the pillow, and his eyes are locked on Dean's, unblinking and in the light it's as if a million stars on falling in his little brother's eyes.

"Sammy." Urgent and deep, the word coming out of his chest like a rolling wave. Sam whimpers and pushes up off the bed to press against him.

And then Dean's moving, careful and sure, slow like he's got the rest of his life to do just this. And he think that maybe, just maybe, he does. The rest of his life and the rest of Sam's. Sam's kisses, when he raises his head and presses his lips to Dean's, taste of tears and forgivness and safety.

"Dean, Dean, Dean." Sam sobs his name against his lips when he comes, pulsing slow and steady between them and Dean comes with him, inside him.

Afterwards, tired and sated, some deep and gnawing hunger in him finally satisfied, he wraps his brother in his arms and kisses his temple.

"Sam." He whispers, low and soft and not because it hurts to speak, but because the words and the moment are delicate and deserving of care. "Thank you, Sammy."

He doesn't need the rings to know that Sam's content for once. His muscles bleed contentment against Dean's body, and Dean soaks it up, takes it for himself. Sam lifts his head, and the moonlight isn't as strong now, hours having passed, but Dean can still read his eyes.

"Dean, god damn it, Dean." He says softly, no real recrimination in his voice, "I love you. So just- just stay with me now, okay? Just stay."

And Dean moves the half an inch that's between them and kisses his soft, full lips.

"Okay, Sammy." A simple promise.

………

It's a full year after Sam pulls Dean out of Hell.

Dean picks the music, eats too much food, and glues Sam's hand to the headboard of one of the motel beds. Sam nags Dean about his eating habits, puts one of those stupid fake ball-through-the-window gags on the Impala and laughs till he cries while Dean curses and screams, and manages to track down well over half of the demons they accidentally let out of Hell the night Dean killed the Yellow Eyed demon.

Dean fucks Sam, makes love to him, touches him, whenever and wherever he can and Sam's okay with that.

The rings on their fingers gleam bright, ruby red. And even though Dean knows when Sam is brooding he still acts like he doesn't, and when Dean pretends he's not scared, Sam lets him even though he can feel it.

Life is hunting and the road and the war and each other.

It's everything it ever needed to be.

……………………………...

(The End)

**Author's Note II: **This whole thing started (chapter one) as an angsty, porny one-shot with the slight possibility of a plot. But then I started thinking and the plot grew. And now, seven chapters later here we are. Thank you so much to everyone who read this and for all the great comments and support. Seriously, it's always terrifying to get into a new fandom, so thanks for reading.

**Author's Note III: **(I know, seriously, three?) I just want to say how bad this chapter kicked my ass. These boys couldn't decide how they wanted to be reunited and if I told you all just how many version of this chapter there are, you'd die. Now that it's done, I think I'm satisfied. I hope you all are too. Thanks again for reading.


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